


Some Sugar

by LovelyMelody



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Dirty Talk, F/M, Family Issues, Mentions of Cancer, Mild Smut, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy Steve Rogers, Threats, exhibition kink?, money issues, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyMelody/pseuds/LovelyMelody
Summary: one moment you’re at the hospital with your little sister and mom, and the next you’re living it large as captain america’s sugar baby.
Relationships: Mentions of: Steve Rogers/Others, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 36
Kudos: 188





	1. prologue: the walls are caving in

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time posting a series on here 😱 thinking about posting some of my old series here, but until then, this one's the only one that will be up.
> 
> lemme know what you guys think of the story so far ❤️
> 
> can also be found on my [tumblr](https://themusicplayedherlife.tumblr.com/post/189457616603) along with the rest of my writing.

The nurses greet you with a smile as you pass by their station. You return their smile with one of your own, ignoring the struggle it is just to lift the corners of your lips to do so. They’re chatting excitedly about something amongst themselves, but you don’t bother stopping to check in with them, you’re only here to see your mom before heading out to pick up Esmeralda from school, anyway.

The hallways are a plain white and the lights are blinding in comparison to the fluorescent yellow in the patient rooms. The smell of strong chemicals lingering in your nose, getting stronger as you approach the room your mom is occupying.

Laughter reaches your ear as you push open her door, and you’re surprised to see Esmeralda sitting by your mom’s side—her right side, the side that doesn’t have her broken arm in a sling—looking every bit a spitting image of you and your mom, only younger.

“Esme, what are you—“

“You’re here,” a familiar voice says from your left, and you’re even more surprised to see May and her nephew Peter sitting on the uncomfortable loveseat. “Esme said you wouldn’t be out for another couple of hours. If we had known we would have picked you up on our way here.”

“May! Peter! Hi. Yeah, I—I’m sorry. What are you doing here?” You had tried to keep your attention on May and Parker to not seem rude, but seeing your sister here instead of at school where she said she’d be is throwing you off. “I thought you had cheerleading tryouts?”

“The pipes under the football field unexpectedly burst and flooded the field and half of the school. So cheerleading tryouts were cancelled,” she says offhandedly and Peter nods, confirming she’s not lying. But something in the way his eyes shift from his Aunt May and your sister, and finally to you has you doubting their story. 

But there’s no way that she’d come up with such a huge lie that you can easily debunk by asking May or calling the school—she’s too smart for that. There’s a reason they’re hiding something, and Esmeralda wouldn’t hide something from you unless she thought it was necessary—is she worried about the cost? 

Your heart drops to your stomach knowing that might be part of it. She’s always been hyper aware of what she can and can not have, even though you try your hardest to give her everything you can to the point that you took out a loan just to pay for her school’s tuition this year. But with your mom’s hospital bills added to the pile at home, she knows you’ll be working overtime to meet due dates.

“There’s always next year,” she says with a smile on her face, trying to cheer you up—when it should be you cheering her up.

“No, postponement date?” you ask, and she pauses briefly before shaking her hand. 

“It’s at the same time as the Debate Team meeting.”

Your eyes move to your mom, who is watching you and Esmeralda with warmth in her eyes, but the small downturn of her lips tells you she’s blaming herself—again.

“Okay,” you start slowly, watching as your little sister’s face lights up. “Next year, then.” She doesn’t wave you away when you ruffle her hair.

May scoots over and pats the empty space between her and Peter. “You must be tired.”

“I’m fine, May.” Not really. You really could use a nap, maybe a whole cup of coffee sans sugar and milk. But you still trudge over to them and plop between them, laughing when Peter makes a show about being squished between the armrest and you.

You spend the rest of your break laughing at the stories Peter and your sister tell your mom about school and their friends. It’s easy to fall into a carefree mentality, to forget your worries when you’re surrounded by everyone, but it’s just as easy for it to shatter.

The alarm on your phone goes off, alerting you and everyone that playtime is over for you. With a barely concealed groan, you stand. “I should start heading out.”

“What time are you off, sweetheart?” your mom asks in her tired, gravelly voice, the machines hooked up to her frail body beeping rhythmically.

“After midnight, maybe. Depends how slow it is at the bar.” Which really means, I’ll be out at two in the morning, at best.

Her furrowed eyebrows says she doesn’t like that one bit. You don’t like it either and neither does Esmeralda. It was easier when mom was home, Esme didn’t have to spend hours alone in your shit apartment waiting for you to come home before finally feeling safe to go to sleep. But what else are you supposed to do? You need the hours and the money.

“Why doesn’t Esme stay with us for the night?” May’s voice steals your attention away from your thoughts.

“Can I? It’ll give Peter and me the chance to work on our presentation!”

“It’ll be awesome! We can stay up and watch Rogue One again and—and—I—I mean totally work on our History presentation, yep.”

You snort at the sheepish smile on Peter’s face and the glare your sister sends his way. “It’s your call, ma.”

She smiles weakly. “I think it’s fine. Thank you, May.”

May walks over to her and squeezes her hand gently. “You don’t have to thank me. You know Peter and I are always here to help. We should head out too. You need your sleep.” She turns to you with a smile. “Want us to give you a ride to work?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

* * * 

The bar, known as Howlies to the regulars, was packed from the moment you arrived, surprisingly enough. Every inch of it covered by bodies sitting on the booths distributed throughout or standing in groups with their friends in hopes of finding an empty booth to claim for themselves. People ordered with a speed you had not seen since working here, but you kept up—appletinis, White Russians, Bourbon on the rocks, shots—so many orders and drinks flowing.

Guess your boss’ newest advertisement method is working.

By the time you’re getting ready to close, your feet are killing you and your neck is stiff. Even bending over to pick up something or to wipe a table is a pain on your lower back. Closing up is usually easy between you and your coworkers—wiping down tables, booths, counters; washing glasses and dishes; stacking the stools and sweeping the floor; mopping and removing the sticky residue on the floors, but tonight you just want to get it over with and get home.

Cassandra Jones, your boss and owner of the bar, hands you an envelope with your tips as you’re packing up your stuff in the back room.

“Good night?” you ask her, too afraid to open it and count how much you’ve made. The last few weeks have been bad, $50 to $70 tips in total, even when having a steady flow of customers.

Her tight, chocolate curls bounce when she nods with a smile. “It’s not a lot, but it’s better than we’ve had all year.” She bumps your shoulder with hers to grab your attention. “Let me just finish up at the register and we’ll head out.”

You nod as she walks off.

Opening the envelope tentatively, you pull out fives and tens, and surprisingly enough you count $190. It’s not great, but it’s better than you’ve seen since you started working here. With what you’ve saved up from tips, maybe you’ll be able to convince Esmeralda to try out for cheer and buy her outfit? Warmth fills your chest. Maybe this is a sign that things are going to get better?

* * * 

You wake up to loud knocking, a familiar squawking coming from the front door—you strain your ears to make out their voice. Aunt Maria? Fuck! You’re quick to get up and throw on some decent clothes, hopping around the apartment to get to the bathroom and brush your teeth. Careful to not get any toothpaste on your shirt, you bend down close to the sink and brush harshly as the knocking gets more and more incessant.

You quickly wash up and yell out, “Coming!” but it does nothing to calm your aunt’s rapid knocking. With a curse, you kick stray clothing under the couch and pick up dirty dishes and hide them in the sink in the kitchen, where she hopefully won’t traverse into. You pick up scattered tools and place them in your tool box and then open the curtains and windows to let in some air and noise that’ll hopefully drive her away quicker.

With a deep breath, you open the door with a practiced smile to greet your aunt. “Aunt Maria! Hello! I wasn’t expecting you.”

Her cat like eyes travel up and down your body, judging your appearance like always. “Tia Magdalena,” she corrects you when she finally meets your eyes. As if her name isn’t Maria Magdalena.

“Tia, right. Sorry,” you mumble, stepping aside to let her into the apartment. “Come in, Tia Magdalena.”

She flashes you a fake smile as she saunters inside. “I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I would stop by.”

“I see.” You close the door and take another slow, deep breath before turning to her where she stands awkwardly in the middle of your small living room. “Would you like some water or juice?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Would you like to sit, then?” You offer, sitting on the ugly, green armchair your mom likes so much.

She eyes the sofa with distaste and then turns to you with another fake smile that slips from her face when you don’t smile back. “No, I’m only here for a bit.”

“Well, what can I help you with?” So you can go on your way and I won’t have to see your face again.

“With your mom in the hospital, I thought you’d be the one I should to talk to about this,” she says, reaching into her purse to pull out a thin manila folder and hands it to you. “It’s an agreement your mother and I signed during your second year at NYU.”

“An agreement?” you repeat unsurely, dread starting to build up. You flip it open and your heart just about drops to the pit of your stomach as your eyes land on the bolded lettering—Loan Agreement. “Aunt—Tia Magdalena, what is this?”

She makes a displeased noise in the back of her throat. “Your mother was struggling to help you and Little Esmeralda with school supplies and clothes, so she came to me for money.”

Your eyes scan the paper and you recognize the curves of your mom’s writing—her name and signature. $8,000. 8,000 fucking dollars. She asked for 8,000 from her? How did she—She hadn’t said anything! Why would she go to your aunt of all people?!

“I gave her six years to finish paying off her debt to me, which I thought was completely doable.”

“20,300 is how much she needed to pay back?” you ask, trying to keep your voice from quivering—how could your mom have accepted that?

“I gave her what I thought was right, honey. Her credit score is just about awful and I needed some kind of reassurance for myself,” she says matter of factly, a small smirk on her face.

“She’s family, Tia. Your sister-in-law—how—how could you—“

She scoffs, dropping the pleasantries. “She chose to came to me for money. If she didn’t like it, she shouldn’t have signed.” Rolling her eyes, she takes another sweep of your apartment. “Shouldn’t you be glad I’m not charging her or sending her to court for the missing payments? I get that she’s sick, but that doesn’t mean she can skip out on payments. Seriously.” She looks at her distasteful nails, long and pointy, ready to scratch someone’s eye out. “There’s no guarantee she’s going to die, anyway.” 

She said it so spitefully, so poisonous, that you could feel it coating your own tongue, entering your bloodstream and injecting you with a searing pain and anger that you’ve never felt before. It's hot and unbearable, and you hate her! You hate her so fucking much! The paper and folder crumple at the edges from the pressure of your hands, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. “You need to leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, get out!” you practically scream as you stand, no longer able to contain your anger, dropping the folder onto the floor. 

She rolls her eyes again and makes her way over to the door. “The agreement period is set to end in two months, honey. If she doesn’t pay the remaining 11,000, I’m going to sue her for everything she has.” Her lips twist into a horrible sneer as her eyes roam your apartment. “Which apparently isn’t much.” 

The door slams harshly, reverberating through the walls, the picture of your family shaking at the impact and about ready to fall.

A frustrated scream rips from between your lips, hands swiping at your hair as you desperately try to get a handle on your emotions.

* * * 

You try to keep yourself composed as you walk down the halls of the hospital, ignoring the chatter around you as you make your way over to your mom’s room. You keep a tight grip on the folder in your hand and march inside her room to find her awake, eyes on the television—until they notice you by the entrance. Her eyes widen and brighten at the sight of you, but when you don’t return her smile or greeting, the light in her eyes dim. “Baby? Everything okay?”

Your mind is yelling at you to throw the contents at her, to accuse her of ruining you and Esme. Anger fanning the flames as you wonder how she could’ve let this happen? How she could’ve put Esmeralda and you in this situation? Did she not think of the consequences? How this could lead to Esmeralda losing the only home she’s ever known? Lose everything you had both worked hard to get for Esmeralda? 

But there’s an itch in your chest too, begging you to hide the contents of the folder, to leave and keep it a secret. Your mom has always been a hard worker, fighting for your family even after losing your dad in that accident, even after your brother abandoned you. She didn’t allow herself to grieve knowing she couldn’t afford to. Instead, she pushed herself forward for you and your siblings, never complaining once. She just kept going and going, overworking herself until she put herself right back into the hospital. 

She wouldn’t have signed that contract unless she deemed it necessary, unless there was no other choice. She wouldn’t do this to you or Esme on purpose. 

She wouldn’t.

You hide the folder behind your back. “I’m okay. Just a little tired.”

Her eyes water and you instinctively take a step forward, taking her thin hands in yours. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says softly. “If I—“

“Don’t,” you stop her with a squeeze, knowing she’s blaming herself for everything that’s been happening. “None of this is your fault, okay? You just focus on getting better and I’ll do the rest.”

Her lips are set in a tight, straight line, but she nods, knowing that whatever she says next, you’re not going to listen to or will wave away. Her eyes move to the beige folder you’re trying to hide behind your back. “What is that?”

“A job application,” you lie through your teeth, but to pay a fraction of what is owed to your aunt, you’re most likely going to need a third job. Or maybe you could convince Cassandra to give you more hours at the bar, or you could always pick up more shifts at the restaurant.

“Baby,” she tries again, but you shake your head.

“I’m just thinking about it, haven’t even filled it out, yet.”

“Please don’t,” she begs you, letting go of your hand to try and cup your cheek. “You’ve already sacrificed too much for us. Stop doing things for our benefit and start doing them for you.”

You bend down, taking her hand and holding it between your cheek and hand. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lean into her touch. “You know I can’t do that, momma.”

“I know,” her voice cracks. “I know, baby.”

* * * 

She falls asleep with your hand in hers. Her breathing is steady and soft unlike the loud beeping of the machine and the television playing low in the background. She used to be such a light sleeper, any small noise waking her up at every minute, but here she is now sleeping as if the world was still (when it’s not).

You need some fresh air.

Picking up the folder, you leave her room, only looking back at her once. Would things be different if dad were still alive? If JC were still around? 

The call of your name has you pausing, Esme is watching you carefully with worried eyes. She takes in your appearance—disheveled and red, puffy eyes. “You okay?” she asks, before panic sheens over her eyes. “Is mom okay?”

You’re quick to reel her back in with a hand to her shoulder and pull her towards you. “She’s fine, Esme. Just sleeping.”

“It doesn’t get easier does it?” Her voice is low and quiet, opposite of her usual loud and cheerful self as she presses her face into the soft material of your worn out t-shirt.

“No,” you tell her truthfully, resting your cheek on the top of her head. “No, it doesn’t. But we’re here for each other, right?”

She mulls over your thoughts, eyes darkening for a moment before they brighten and she smiles. “Always.”

You return her smile weakly. “Did you come alone?”

She takes a quick glance behind her back and nods, frowning. “No, Peter dropped me off before heading out for some outing he has with his internship. You sure you’re okay?”

You ruffle her locks and smile ruefully. “Mhmm. Stay with mom, yeah? I need to step out for a bit.”

Before she can say anything, you step around her and head towards the elevator, ignoring her call of your name. With a shaky hand, you press the button for the lobby and lean back against the metal walls of the lift, head falling back. You close your eyes and take a deep, shaky breath.

The small courtyard is strangely quiet for the early afternoon. It’s usually full of patients and their family members taking a breather, needing to smell something other than anesthetics and chemicals. But you’re glad it’s empty—you have all the space in the world to cry and be angry and sad at everything and everyone.

It’s not like you’ve thought of life as unfair—hard, maybe. But unfair? Never. You have a roof over your head, a mother and sister that love you and do what they can to help, two jobs that pay, and a best friend that although is miles away, you can call and vent to. Yes, bad things have happened—from your dad’s death, to your brother disappearing, and your mom’s cancer returning, but they were things that you got and are getting through with the people you love.

But right this moment? You feel so alone, and it’s unfair.

How is it that bad things just keep happening? Why can’t things get better before they get worse? It’s always hit after hit, never a break to just fucking breathe and live your life!

You sob into your hands, wanting nothing more than to have the whole world stop for a minute and just allow you to grieve.

“Ma’am?” A gentle male voice coaxes—deep and stern, maybe even a little worried.

You wipe away your tears harshly with the back of your hands. “Sorry. Am I being too loud? I’ll—I’ll keep it down, sir.” He doesn’t reply, instead a blue handkerchief is shoved under your eyesight by red gloves. Lifting your gaze as you take it, you’re taken aback by the man standing in front of you—Captain America?—wearing an exact replica of the one Steve Rogers used to wear in the 1940’s and the Battle of New York. “Thank you, uh, Captain?”

You had heard from a nurse that the hospital tended to hire actors to play the heroes you’ve only ever seen on TV, knowing that the kids loved seeing their favorite heroes in person, even if it’s not the actual heroes themselves. But it’s your first time seeing it since your mom has been admitted back into the hospital.

The man offers you a small smile, blue eyes softening at the sight of your blotchy face. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

You duck your head, sniffling and wiping at your tear stained cheeks with the handkerchief.

He shuffles on his feet awkwardly before sitting down next to you. “Do you mind if I sit—well, I’ve already sat down, haven't I?” 

Your surprised chuckle comes out like a strained sob. “You’re fine.”

He flashes you a warm smile, but other than that, he’s quiet. He just sits with you in companionable silence—you should think this is uncomfortable or a little weird, having a stranger sit with you as you're trying to reel yourself in. But there’s something about this man dressed as Captain America that is soothing. It’s no wonder why the hospital hired him to keep the patients company.

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, breaking the silence between you. “You didn’t have to, um, sit with me.”

He flashes you a pretty smile, blue eyes twinkling with sympathy and kindness. “It was no problem.”

Your voice falters as you hand him back the handkerchief, used only to wipe away your tears. “Here, I—ah—“

“Keep it,” he says, closing your fingers over the piece of cloth, and you frown, unsure. “I have another one at home.”

“Thank you,” you say again, sounding like a broken record, but the kind stranger doesn’t seem to mind. “I should head back inside.” He nods and stands with you. Awkwardly, you turn on your heels and walk away.

“Ma’am,” he calls out to you, and you pause, looking at him over your shoulder—he’s frowning, fiddling with the strap of his gloves, but he looks up and says, “I may not know what you’re going through, but they will get better. It might not be today, or tomorrow, but I want you to know, that I believe it eventually will.”

You stare at him, and he continues to fiddle with the strap, eyes downcast and refusing to meet yours. There’s something endearing about a flustered Captain America, actor or not. Your lips twitch with an involuntary smile. “Thanks, Cap.”


	2. just keep breathin’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you’re officially introduced to captain america.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little slow, but I hope you enjoy it anyway ❤️ and thank you so much for the sweet comments in the last chapter ❤️
> 
> here's a little [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1OkvNbCiRTgioOl4Q0j4Kw?si=xelT1gTIToqR1oNKznlFVA) i made a while back for this story, it still needs some editing, but majority of the songs are there to stay, except maybe 2...

There’s a steady stream of customers all night, nothing like a few nights ago, but it’s definitely better than it’s been for a while. While you want to be happy for Cassandra, your mind keeps going back to your Tia Magdalena’s threats, most recently a note slipped under your door, that you thankfully found before Esmeralda could. 

It’s no wonder why your mom (and dad) kept communications with her to a minimum—which only adds to the mystery of why she went to her of all people for money.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice calls for your attention, it’s strong yet somehow nervous. When you look up to smile at him, you’re greeted by stormy, blue eyes illuminated by the lights behind you on the shelves and mirror. He’s handsome, alarmingly so with brown hair cascading down to the top of his broad shoulders—cheekbones sharp and chin dented right at the end and covered by mild scruff.

Holy fuck … what you wouldn’t give to spend a night with him. It’s been so long since...

Hey! You’re at work, and work means focusing!

You push your warring thoughts aside and manage your best customer service smile. “What can I get for you?”

“Three beers,” he says, eyes falling to the taps behind you, and with a quiet and unsure voice, he orders three Mirages

You smile reassuringly. “Good choice.” When he eyes you curiously, you explain, “Local brew.” You turn your back to him and grab the glasses for beer as Cassandra squeezes by you to reach the register at the end of the bar to charge a group.

You fill one of the glasses and set it aside while you absentmindedly fill up another, the sound of the soothing trumpets playing through the speakers washing over the bar. 

Eleven thousand dollars. How are you going to pay that much money in two months?

“You okay?” Cassandra asks, watching you carefully, eyes drifting to the glass in your hand.

You’re quick to switch to the final glass when you realize you’re about to overfill the second. With a tired smile you say, “I’m fine.”

She frowns, shaking her chocolate curls, but before she can say anything, someone saunters up to the bar and orders a drink. She gives you a look that says—I’m not done with you—and starts making the drink for the customer.

With the final glass filled, you spin on your heels to face the male that ordered the beers and are surprised to find he’s no longer alone—two men are flanking him.

They’re just as tall and wide as the brunette—a contrast of skin between them, the one on his left a beautiful shade of umber—dark and rich. Black hair short and buzzed, and a thin beard making his face seem slimmer than he appears to be, apple of his cheeks high and round when he smiles at something his companions say. Handsome in a simple white tee and black leather jacket.

The other man on his right is white, almost pink and peach with the low lighting of the bar, nothing like the tanned brunette between them. If his friends are handsome, he’s beautiful. Golden hair slicked back with a semi fade on the sides; muscles tightly wrapped and bounded by a blue Henley that you’re certain is a size too small; lashes, long and thick brush against his cheek bones; face clear of scruff and dark shadows; lips pink and pretty—something almost boyish in his smile that makes you crack a smile of your own.

Shit. You’d take any one of them home!

Three pairs of eyes land on you as you set down their beer, and you freeze, locking with blue eyes—bright and alarming, specks of hazel and greens around his iris making his eyes pop in the dark bar. Something flashes within them, and there’s something familiar about them that you can’t quite place.

What is it?

Cassandra makes a noise from beside you, like a hum and a snicker and you realize you might’ve been staring at him for far too long. Shit.

Clearing your throat, you drag your gaze to the brunette between them and smile politely. “Here are the first two, let me just get the last one.” A sleek, black card comes into view after placing down the final glass, and you take it, a little embarrassed. “Open tab or closed?”

“Keep it open,” the blonde says, a familiarity directed at you that has you raising your eyebrows, but you ignore it. “Just in case.”

“Of course.” You don’t really look at him or his friends after accepting the card, scurrying away to swipe his card to make sure it’s good, and input his first order under the last name on his card—Rogers. Storing the card for the meantime, you go back to cleaning the bar.

“You sure you’re okay?” Cassandra tries again. 

“Cass,” you warn with a sigh, eyes trailing over to the men that have decided to settle on the barstools instead of an empty table—the three too busy engaged in their own conversation to listen in on yours.

“As your boss and friend, I have every right to worry about you,” she says, resting an elbow on the bar and leaning forward. “Your head has been up in the clouds lately. And more than usual. Did something happen to your mom? Is she okay? Is her arm not healing properly?”

“She’s as okay as a chemotherapy patient can be,” you snap harshly, rubbing at the bar fiercely. She blinks at you surprised and doesn’t retort—shame immediately creeps up on you. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean—“

“Hey. Hey. I know,” she affirms gently. “It hasn’t been easy for you, but you know I’m here if you ever want to talk.” She makes a gesture to herself and your eyebrows knit.

The glasses clink as you put them away. “Thanks. She’s getting better, but I’m not ready. Not yet.” 

She nods solemnly. “I understand, but I’m here whenever you are. You hear?” she says, pointing a finger at you before taking the empty tray to the back.

You watch her leave with a sigh. You really shouldn’t be taking out your frustrations on others, you mentally scold yourself. 

As you continue wiping down glasses, your phone vibrates in your back pocket, slipping it out discreetly, a notification of a new message appears on the lock screen.

Selena⛱☀️: Went over the docs. You free to talk?

Just those simple words are enough to steal your breath away; dread filling your bones. She didn’t add an emoji, you realize; no emoji usually meant trouble.

Your grip tightens around your phone.

Skyscraper: gimme min

Stuffing it back into your pocket, you look around the semi empty bar—the group in the back, the three men at the bar, a couple by the entrance. Biting your lip, you look back at the door Cassandra slipped through, cautiously. Your phone vibrates again, and it’s enough to push you towards it.

Twisting the knob slowly, you poke your head in and find Cassandra near the merch taking inventory, and your coworker, Matt cleaning up the small kitchen by Cassandra’s office.

Rapping on the wood, the two drag their attention to you. “Cass, do you mind if I make a quick call?”

She blinks, a worried frown stretching itself across her ebony skin and her shoulders tense. You shake your head when she raises an eyebrow. 

“Personal,” you tell her. “Kind of.”

Her shoulders drop and a small smile replaces her frown. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll man the front while you’re away.”

“Thank you.”

You slip into the small hallway connecting the bar to the two gender-neutral bathrooms for customers. You lean against the locked door leading into Cassandra’s office, never used since you started working here, and stare at the door leading out into the dirty alleyway. 

The phone rings against your ear, the faint music from the bar encasing the small hallway too, it’s soothing in a strange way, with its slow beat and sensual saxophone solo.

“Hello?” Selena answers, a loose mix of a Californian and Australian accent seeping into her words. She’s only been living in California for a little over a year and she’s already picked up the accent faster than she did yours—traitor.

“How’s the Californian sun?”

“Golden,” she answers readily, a grin apparent in her voice. “Better than New York’s, that’s for certain. Though, not quite like home.” Keys clicking in the background float to your ear. “I looked over the documents—“

You straighten, lifting your thumb to bite your skin. “And?” 

She hesitates, clothes rustle and she takes in a deep breath that you try not to read into. “It’s all legit.” Fuck. “Usually, we can exploit mistakes or loopholes, but your aunt was completely thorough with her agreement.” Your head hits the wooden door. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

“It’s fine.”

“Look, I have a thousand dollars saved up right now—“ You’re quick to stop her by calling her name, but she won’t allow you to interrupt her. “And I could probably get another $500 soon—“

You clench your eyes closed. “You don’t have to do that, Sel. I could always get another loan from the bank and--“

“Will you shut up and let me finish? I know your pride won’t let you accept my money for free.” You slide down the door, head hanging as you listen to her. “You can always pay me back, at your terms. Ten, twenty a month, a year, fuck, I don’t care. Whatever makes you feel better. But I’m not going to let you take out another loan! You’re still paying off your mom’s hospital bill and that dumb loan you got for Esmeralda’s school fees!”

“Selena, you really don’t have to—“

“I know I don’t have to,” she snaps harshly, voice full of tough love. “I want to. You and your family helped me through a tough time and I want to help you guys too. I’m in a place where I can help, and if you won’t accept my help, then fuck you, I’ll tell your sister and I’ll send her the money.”

You choke back a sob.

“Listen,” she starts, her voice soft as you hold back sniffles, “1500 isn’t a lot, or even half of the money your aunt is demanding, but it’s a start. And I have a plan, okay? I asked Camille and Jason to whip up a new contract, using the 1500 as a down payment of sorts. I can’t guarantee it’ll work, but we’re going to negotiate with her, fight for it. It’s not over yet.”

“God, what would I do without you?”

Her voice cracks as she scoffs a laugh. “Good thing you don’t have to find out, huh?”

The music fades into the background, loud laughter cuts through the noise. Cassandra’s voice rings out loudly, announcing last call. “I feel so hopeless, Sel,” you admit to her, words laden with grief and exhaustion, and in some ways guilt. Guilt that you can’t do more for your family. Guilt that you didn’t do more to stop JC from leaving. Guilt that you’re such a horrible daughter and sister.

“Oh, darl’...”

“The hospital bills, Esme’s school, even the bare necessities—it was hard to scrape by, and now this? I just—why can’t we catch a break? Esme doesn’t deserve this. Fuck, Mom doesn’t deserve this!” Maybe if you had fought harder—tried harder, none of this would be happening.

“You don’t either.”

She might be right, but it does nothing to ease the guilt that’s slowly starting to grow in your chest. “I’m sorry, Selena. I should let you go. I’ve asked enough of you already.“

“Hey! None of that, okay? I should be the one apologizing for not being there to hand you tissues and force feed you those ice lollies you like so much.” You let out a wet snort that she mimics. “I want you to know, no, I need you to know, that even if I'm miles away, I’m always here for you if you ever need me. No matter what.”

You rub the heel of your hand against your eye. “I know. Thank you, Sel.”

“You’re welcome.”

With whispered goodbyes and cheesy “I love you’s” you hang up. Curling up, you cover your face with your hands, shuddering breath escaping your lungs as you will yourself not to cry.

“Ma’am?” It’s soft, careful and almost stern like, kind of like Captain America from the hospital. “Are you—are you all right?” No, not kind of. It is Captain America from the hospital!

Your eyes snap up, heat licking your skin at the embarrassment of having been caught crying twice by—eyebrows knead together as they take in the blonde costumer with the black card that can certainly not be your Captain America… right? 

Rogers. Rogers… Roge—fucking shit. Wait a minute! He’s the real Captain America? You’ve been caught crying by Captain fucking America? Not once, but twice? That’s fucking worse! “It’s you… you’re really… Captain America?”

He smiles, it’s kind and sweet—warmth. “You remember me.”

Of course you remember him! You just can’t believe he’s the real Captain America, history book figure, war hero Steve Rogers. You feel like an absolute idiot for not having noticed!

“Kind of hard to forget when you caught me ugly sobbing in a hospital courtyard,” you find yourself quipping back as you make to stand, quickly rubbing away your tears. “Thank you for the handkerchief, by the way. I didn’t bring it with me—“ Not that you were expecting to see him again, anyway, but you had been carrying it around just in case.

“Don’t worry about it. I told you I have more at home.” Heat crawls up your neck—because of course he does. He’s Steven Rogers, Captain America. An Avenger. A loaded Avenger in every sense of the word. He chuckles, ducking his head, but then he sobers up, smile replaced by a small frown. “Are you okay—I heard—I heard,” he pauses to swallow and you realize that he’s heard more than your crying. Fuck. “Crying. I heard you crying. Again,” he adds the last bit like a second thought.

He’s a shit liar, but you still appreciate his effort. “Fine. I’m fine, thank you for worrying about me,” you tell him softly, trying to push a smile forward. Probably looks more like a grimace. “You probably have a lot more important things to worry about than me.”

Just as you have more important things to worry about.

Peggy Lee’s voice fills the hallway with her soft, haunting crooning—“I was always a fool for my Johnny,” she sings and it jerks you. For just a moment you forget where you are; you’re suddenly eight years old again, watching your mom teach your brother how to play the guitar as your dad records them with the handheld camera. 

Your mom looks at you and asks you to sing along with them, but you refuse, embarrassed that she’d even suggest you should sing! You can’t sing! But she and your teasing dad somehow coax you to screech the lyrics along with your brother’s playing, and by the end of it, you’re completely overheated and embarrassed that your dad got it all on tape, even your impromptu performance of dancing around the living room like a maniac.

But as soon as the memory comes, it’s gone. Fading to the deepest pit of your mind as you once more find yourself in the small hallway of your workplace, Steve Rogers’ frown growing deeper, lines making themselves at home on his forehead as he watches you contemplatively. “Do you—Would you like to exchange numbers?”

His request comes completely out of left field, it’s practically enough to shock whatever tears were still threatening to fall to dry up. It’s a welcome distraction. “Why?” falls from your parted lips.

He scratches the back of his head, ears turning pink as he turns away. “I just thought—uh—too forward?”

A little, you want to say, but your inner Cassandra and Selena are calling you an idiot, urging you to give him your number. Should you? You’re not going to lose anything by giving it to him. You’re probably not going to gain anything from it either. But how many times will you ever be able to say that an Avenger asked for your number? That Steve Rogers asked for your number? “Okay.”

His head snaps up and something within his eyes stir, you don’t know what it is or even come close to understanding it, but it sends a weird hum through your body that you try to ignore. Noticing your staring, his melts and gives way to his earlier softer look—kind and warm. “Here.” He gives you his phone after unlocking it and you take it, inputting your number and name before handing it back to him. He says your name aloud—and you physically resist the urge to react to him saying your name—and his lips tilt upward. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“Hey, Steve, we should—“ Steve moves his head to look over his shoulder as you lean to the side to find who you’ve come to the realization must be another Avenger—Falcon. His earthy eyes move between you and Steve, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Am I interrupting something?”

Your lips roll into your mouth to hide the grimace you’re mostly likely sporting. “Ah, no, we—I was just—thank you again, um, Cap? Steve?”

“Steve,” he tells you, smiling reassuringly in your direction before turning to Sam with a semi serious expression. “I’ll be there in a moment, Sam.“

“It’s fine,” you interject, moving your gaze from him and his friend to stare over their shoulders’ and out into the warm lit bar. “I need to get back to work, anyway.”

“Right, of course,” Steve says, stepping aside to let you through. You smile at him briefly but before you can pass by him, he stops you with a shy smile. “You wouldn’t mind if I call you?”

You falter slightly, taking you a moment to recover, but once your muscles relax, you flash him an unguarded smile. “No, I wouldn’t.”


	3. i wanna hold hands with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, all we need is a someone to take our hand and help us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapters might be getting longer than i anticipated and i might be cutting them up (had to take out Steve’s pov because wow), but it’ll really depend on the flow of the story
> 
> anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! I know it's a little slow at first but it picks up, promise

It’s been about a week since you gave your number to Steve. 

You had known not to get your hopes up, but after seeing the shy smile that appeared on his handsome face and how kind he sounded when he asked if he could call, it was hard not to get your hopes up! 

Why ask for your number and then ask for permission if he’s not going to call?! Who even does that anyway? No one does! 

And then leaving you a $100 tip for three beers? What the actual fuck? Not that you didn’t appreciate it but who leaves that kind of tip for three beers? Cassandra had practically hounded you after they left, thinking that you personally knew Captain America, the Falcon, and the Winter Soldier. Fuck, you hadn’t even recognized them when they walked in, so the answer was obviously not! She didn’t believe you–”or else why would Captain America have followed after you?” You rolled your eyes at the suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows and ignored her for the rest of closing.

Because of her teasing, you didn’t mention him asking for your number.

The table in front of you squeaks with your rough wiping— _ugh_ , you have more important things to worry about than a boy—man, person, soldier, or whatever!

A sharp call of your last name causes your body to react violently, jerking your body straight and for the rag in your hand to drop to the floor. 

Your boss wears a scowl, thin lips practically disappearing and gums appearing against stark yellow teeth. His beady eyes take you in and you can practically feel the heat of his glare on your face. “Be careful! If you scratch–”

“I know, I know,” you start offhandedly, reaching for the rag you dropped, “it’ll come out of my pay.” Not like you could actually scratch the glass table with a cotton rag, but whatever.

He humphs, shooting you another glare before disappearing into the back. Sighing when the door closes behind him, you share exasperated smiles with your coworkers. Your boss isn’t usually such a dick, but with the holidays coming up and the Italian restaurant getting an abundance of catering orders, he’s been a little off-kilter.

Which reminds you, you were hoping to ask him about this years Christmas bonus and if you could get it in advance, but if his little show just a couple of minutes ago are of any indication, he might not be so willing to be so kind (even if you’ve picked up more shifts this month). 

There’s still so much that needs to be done. 

  1. You have to check with the bank to see if you’re eligible for another loan—this time to pay back your aunt—as your last resort.
  2. You need to check in with Selena and her progress on the agreement she and her coworkers are working on.
  3. You have to schedule an appointment with Esme’s academic advisor, who’ll most likely suggest that Esme join more after school activities to help her future chances with universities or to beg you to convince your sister to reconsider her decision about cheer. She’s already far behind financially that she needs to make up for it with her grades and extracurricular.
  4. You need to deal with your phone bill, might even have to switch plans or call to ask if they have any promotions to help lower your payment for the next month, or else you and Esme will be without a way to communicate when you’re going to be home late and she’s home alone.



_God_ , why is there so much to do?

“Why don’t you go for your ten?” your coworker Irene suggests, holding a clipboard with all of your coworker’s names and their allotted work schedule. “It’s going to get busy as soon as we open.” And you look like shit, is probably what she’s thinking.

You nod and she smiles as you make your way over to the break room. The cooks usually spend their break in the kitchen, hunched over in a corner to eat, so you and the rest of the servers have made the break-room your little reprieve. It’s small, practically non existent, really, but you and your coworkers make it work. You maneuver around the young chefs and head chef, greeting them as you go, and they return it a little distracted, prepping for today’s menu.

Your boss is in his office, fingers in his disheveled hair with piles of paperwork surrounding him. You pay him no mind as you pass by it.

The break room is empty, devoid of any life other than you.

The lockers your coworkers and you stuff your belongings in is against the right wall, next to the small microwave your boss had installed after some of you complained that you couldn’t use the kitchen to warm up your food in fear of getting in the way of the chefs. 

You enter your combination, pulling out your bag to look for your old modeled phone. It sits at the bottom, under your change of clothes. The screen is black, and as you wait for it to turn on, you put everything back and close the locker.

You sit on one of the wooden stools brought in by a coworker, having grown annoyed that there were no seats in the break room. The screen illuminates your face as you wait, until finally your lock screen appears and so does a text message from Cassandra asking if you saw the show she’s been recommending and another from Selena giving you an update on the agreement she was working on, and a missed call from an unknown number who left a voicemail. Your heart leaps to your throat, anticipation growing in your stomach. Could it be…?

You quickly unlock your phone, swiping to open the voicemail. Pressing play, you press your phone to your ear and find yourself biting the skin of your thumb.

“ _Uh_ , hello—“ you hate that your heart flutters at the nervous mention of your name. He says it so carefully, gently, as if testing out the waters. “This is Steve. Steve Rogers.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. A mission we were sent on lasted longer than we anticipated.” He sighs deeply, sounding a bit tired and you grow worried. “I hope you didn’t think I wouldn’t call or that I asked for your number to mess with you.” The nerves melt into a puddle of goo as your head fills with heat, embarrassment licking your skin at having been guessed so easily. “I, _um_ , I was hoping we could meet up soon? For coffee? Or lunch? Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He pauses and the line grows quiet. “There’s something I want to ask you, but I, _uh_ —it might be better if I ask you in person? Call me back when you get the chance. This is my personal number, by the way. Right, then… Have a good day? _Shit_. Didn’t mean that as a question! I hope you _do_ have a good day—you know what, I’m just going to hang up now.”

The voice mail ends and you pull your phone away, staring at the number on the screen, a small laugh escaping you.

He called you! Steve Rogers really called you! And with his personal number too! _God_ , what kind of messed up dream are you in?

Your bottom lip becomes a chew toy—should you call back? Should you not? You should, right? You were disappointed that he hadn’t called, and now that he has, you should. …Right?

You let out a loud groan and throw your head back into the empty space. What would Selena and Cassandra say if they were here? You snort. Wow, that was a dumb question. You know exactly what they would say—call him, you idiot.

Before you can let your nerves take over, you quickly press the callback button. It rings, and you swear to god your heart speeds up, a buzzing gathering around in your head as you wait for his answering machine. But that doesn’t happen.

“Hello?”

Your heart that had been lodged in your throat drops to your stomach, and you find your throat growing dry. “Steve?”

He says your name just as he had when he left the voicemail. “Hey. You heard my voicemail.” He sounds almost happy? Excited, maybe?

“I did, yeah.” You curl a strand of hair behind your ear. “You said you wanted to meet up?”

“Yes!” he suddenly squeaks. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, no. I don’t.” At all. Okay. Maybe a little? Not because you don’t want to talk to him or meet up with him. But because you’re nervous now and you don’t know what to do. “When did you want to meet up?” 

“Today? If you have time?”

You frown, eyes drifting to the clock on the wall, just on top of the lockers. Your ten minutes are almost up. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit. “I’m at work until 4 and then I have to head to my shift at the bar right after.”

“Oh,” he says, a little disappointed. You don’t know why, but you quickly rack your brain to try and ease his disappointment.

“Maybe during a lunch break? At either job.”

“Oh,” his voice lightens, and your chest soars at having not disappointed Captain America. “What time do you have your lunch break?”

“For my current job?”

“Yes,” he answers, papers shuffling in his end.

“Uh, usually around 2 in the afternoon?”

“Then do you want to get lunch together for your break? We don’t have to go far.”

“Okay.” Your inner Selena and Cassandra squeal with delight. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Mind sending me the address?”

“I’ll send it to you right now.”

“Okay.” There’s a tilt to his voice and you picture him smiling, your own lips lifting. “Then… I’ll see you soon?”

“Yes, see you soon.”

* * *

Work drags on, and you’re impatient, occasionally tapping your foot and staring out the door, waiting for familiar blue eyes and blonde hair to burst through it at any moment.

“And I’ll have the fig and salami pizza,” a man with a too large nose, bleached blonde hair and dull blue eyes orders. “Make sure that the chef doesn’t add garlic. I hate garlic.” You nod, about to ask if he needed anything else, but he beats you to it. “Oh, and make sure that the dough is perfectly cooked. I like it to snap.”

You nod with a patient smile. “Anything else, sir?”

He shakes his head and waves you away from him and his date.

You sigh when you reach the kitchen, giving your order to the head chef and leave as he reads out the order—making sure not to bump into anyone. Just as you step out, a coworker stops you, his face still new and his name yet unlearned.

“Irene told me to tell you someone is looking for you,” he says before entering the kitchen.

Your heart leaps, and although you know who it might be, you can’t help but ask, “Did she mention a name?”

He shakes his head and the kitchen door closes behind him.

Your feet carry you to the main station where Irene is usually positioned, and unfortunately, she isn’t with the man you were hoping to see. 

It’s someone else. A [stranger](https://famebytes.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/Burak-Ozcivit.jpg).

He’s tall, handsome, and rugged in a grey suit. Dark hair styled back and dark beard pristine and well groomed. He’s sporting a charming smile, eyes crinkling amicably.

Irene is blushing, cheeks red and eyes wide as they stare up at him. For a moment, she looks away from him and your eyes connect. Her brown eyes light up and she says something to him that has him looking over his shoulder.

Your feet falter, hesitating when you make eye contact with the male. Something in his gaze shifts, eyes narrowing, nothing friendly remaining on his face—it’s calculating and cold.

He fully turns to you and behind him is Irene mouthing something at you and pointing at him. You’re pretty sure she’s saying, “Who is this hottie?” 

You have no idea.

“You asked for me?” You direct towards her, hoping there’s been some kind of mistake.

“Yes,” the male answers instead, and there’s a hint of an accent to his voice. It’s unfamiliar to you, just like his face. “We have some things to discuss.”

You want to ask if you know him, but before you can, his gaze returns to Irene.

“You don’t mind if I steal her for a moment?”

“Of course not,” she says. “You came right on time, anyway. I was just about to send her on her lunch break.”

Great. He could be a murderer for fucksake and she could be sending you to your deathbed without knowing!

“Perfect,” he says, eyes returning to you. He roughly grabs your arm and leans down to whisper in your ear, masking it with a jovial smile and pretending he was just moving you away from an incoming co-worker carrying plates. “If you don’t want to lose your job, I suggest you come with me.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

You muster a glare, twisting your arm out of his hold before addressing Irene. “I’ll be right back.” Removing your black waist apron, you hand it to her before following the strange male out to the front of the restaurant. She’s none the wiser, smiling brightly and giving you two thumbs up.

You stop a little off to the side, making sure to not block the way of people leaving or entering the restaurant, or strolling by. Waiting for a couple to pass you both, your eyes try not to waver as they harden. “Who are you?”

He stands straight, head held high and looking down at you—he’s trying to intimidate you, that much is obvious by his stance and the way his eyes stay narrowed. It’s working. But you’re not about to let him know that.

He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope, a familiar seal—belonging to the note that had been slipped under your door—greeting you. “Madame Magdalena—“ Madame? What the fuck? First Tia, and now Madame? Is that woman obsessed with titles? “Sends another message.”

You have got to be shitting me!

You ignore your shaking hands and rip the envelope from his hands, opening it without care; and just as you had suspected, it’s another note with the remaining amount and the due date. “She’s threatening me at my job now? Seriously?”

The male remains stoic. “She is growing impatient.”

It hasn’t even been a month since she stopped by the apartment! Hell, it hasn’t even been three weeks!

“Yeah?” You rip up the paper along with the envelope in half. “Well, tell my aunt that if she continues to threaten me, I’m going to the police!”

The man’s eye twitches, but other than that, his expression doesn’t change. 

A familiar voice calls your name as a hand settles on your shoulder, guiding you back a step. “Is everything all right?”

“Steve?” you drawl, wide eyes falling on the man you had been waiting for. He smiles down at you, baseball cap barely hovering over his eyes and squeezing your shoulder gently before hardening his gaze at the male in front of you.

“I am only the messenger,” the man says, a little deflated and unsure of the newcomer.

You don’t blame him. His size could be used to intimidate you, but not Steve. Steve is taller by a couple of inches and thicker in muscles, and there’s this air of authoritativeness surrounding him that is hard to ignore. And if the man recognizes who he is, he definitely doesn’t want to mess with an Avenger.

“Then be my messenger and tell her to stop,” you snarl, grabbing the hem of Steve’s denim jacket as a foothold.

The man nods stiffly and turns on his heels. “Excuse me.”

Steve and you watch in silence, neither of you paying any mind to the bustling streets or cars. A man shouts somewhere in the distance and music is playing from the bookstore next door.

It’s not until he’s out of your sight that you take a deep breath, easing your grip on Steve’s jacket and growing lax as the nerves and tenseness leave your body.

“You okay?” he asks, and Steve’s eyes are full of concern.

You manage a smile. “I think so.”

He scans the area, face serious and devoid of any emotions. Is he checking if you’re both being watched? His expression relaxes after doing a quick sweep. “Do you want to reschedule lunch?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, no. You’d be a welcome distraction from what happened, honestly.” Your eyes automatically follow the route the stranger took. “Besides, I don’t think this’ll be the last time this happens,” you admit, trying to keep the wariness and defeat from your voice. “Anyway, lunch?”

Steve doesn’t try to hide his unease with your admission, and you’re almost positive he wants to ask you more questions, but he holds them back. “My friend mentioned there was a good bistro around here. Want to go there?”

“That’d be great,” you say, following after him, but not before throwing the ripped up note into a nearby trash can.

* * *

The bistro Steve takes you to is small, almost empty, but it has a cute rustic charm to it—all wooden, open brick, and green plants. You occupy a round table that only fits two people, choosing to sit by the back where the lighting is a little darker and the window is facing away from a main street. 

You order a fruit tea, foregoing your usual heavy coffee because a nervous you and coffee don’t mix well.

Steve orders a black tea and two breakfast sandwiches, one which he pushes your way when they arrive. When you give him a bewildered look, he says, “You need to eat something.”

He’s sweet.

“Thank you.”

He just smiles, but something keeps him on edge—eyes moving from you to the door, hand wrapped around his drink but never actually drinking from it.

You sigh, placing your sandwich back on the small plate. “He’s not coming back, Steve.”

He rips his gaze from the door and blinks. “What?” 

“The man from earlier?” You meet his gaze, trying to smile. “He’s not coming back. Not today, anyway,” you mutter to yourself.

Deep lines make themselves a home on his forehead and there’s an urge deep in your gut wanting you to reach out and wipe them away. “If he comes back, make sure to call me.”

“He’s not going to hurt me. My aunt wouldn’t let him hurt me just—“ your throat grows dry and his eyes narrow. “I mean—“

“Is she—did she send him to threaten you?”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything.

His face softens, trying to make himself seem more friendly and approachable—seeming like he cares. Especially when he says your name so carefully and slowly, like some kind of treasure. “You can tell me.”

You swallow the lump forming in your throat. “Why?” He doesn’t answer. “Why do you—you don’t even know me.”

He frowns, debating with himself until settling on, “I don’t need to know you to care.”

You retract, leaning back into your chair. That’s not good enough, even if butterflies are beginning to sprout their wings in your stomach. God, have you really been deprived of male attention for so long that you react like this at the first man that shows he cares?

“I… I overheard your conversation that night. Heard you were having trouble and…”

Of course he heard. Of course he fucking did. Fuck. “It doesn’t concern you,” you state coldly, ignoring the humming in your ear. You really don’t want his pity.

His lips purse together and his eyes lower, dark lashes curtaining over blue eyes. You worry your bottom lip, an unsettling feeling stirring in your stomach—guilt. You’re about to open your mouth to apologize but he beats you to it.

“I want to help you.” He licks his lips, meeting your gaze with determination. There’s something so intense and fiery in his eyes that your heart jumpstarts and your breath gets caught in your throat. “And I think… I think we can help each other.”

Against your better judgement, you ask, “How?”

“I can…” he swallows, nail dragging back and forth on the table. “I can provide you money, help you with your bills and your needs, and in return you give me… company.”

“Are you asking me to be your personal prostitute?” He flounders and your eyes narrow. “Because it sounds like you’re asking for sex in return for money.”

“No! No—There was a term—” He tilts his head, thinking deeply about something before shaking his head. “What I meant was that I—I sometimes have events to attend and if I don’t take a date, women at these things tend to…”

Your nerves begin to ease, amusement taking over at the sight of a flustered Steve. “Throw themselves at you?”

“Yes!” He nods vigorously before mellowing out, eyes dropping to the tea that is no longer steaming. “Yes, they tend to throw themselves at me and it”—he winces, most likely remembering an instance— “it can be too much sometimes.”

“So… you want me to be a sort of barrier between you and these women?”

He sighs in relief that you understand. “Not just that. I meant when I said I wanted company, someone I can have a genuine conversation with.” He exhales through his nose. “Being who I am doesn’t exactly give me time to… meet people.”

Your jaw slackens as it clicks in your head: he wants a sugar baby. He’s asking you of all people to be his sugar baby! “What about the women throwing themselves at you?”

He snorts, lips turning into a self deprecating smile. “Most of them are just interested in what I am. Not who I am.”

You frown. Is he sure about that? 

“I just want someone to care about, someone who’ll let me take care of them, protect them and who is willing to get to know me as Steve Rogers, not Captain America.”

You mull over his words, the soft music drifting through the wooden beams of the bistro and the low chattering from the other customers suddenly seeming louder as you think. “Why me? You don’t exactly know me.”

He smiles, all soft and sweet eyes drifting over your face. “Why not you?”

That’s not exactly the answer you were expecting to hear, but you still find yourself relaxing in your seat. “How would this work?”

“Sharon”—Sharon? As in the famed Sharon Carter? Weren’t they rumored to be dating at some point?—“mentioned something about coming up with our terms and agreeing on them together. Maybe we can start there? After you have time to think about accepting my offer or not, of course.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. “Okay.”

* * *

“You’ve got to be pulling my leg!” Selena practically yells from the other line, and you pull your phone away from your ear, wincing. “Captain _fucking_ America is asking to be your Sugar Daddy?”

You curl under your bed sheets, trying to be quiet and not wake up Esme in the other twin bed. “I know, I’m just as in shock as you are.”

“I’m not in shock. I’m excited for you!” She gushes sleepily. “Please tell me you’re going to say yes! Because if you aren’t, I’m booking a flight to New York right now to slap some sense into you.”

You laugh, voice bubbling with mild glee and nerves. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“Good! This is good for you! You deserve someone looking after you. You’ve done enough looking after.”

You shiver from the cold air seeping into the apartment, watching Esme closely—if she shivers too there’s another blanket in the closet you can put on her. “If I do say yes, it’ll be because I’ll have the ability to look after Esme and my mom, Sel.”

“And that’s fine! Not saying that shouldn’t be your driving force. But it’s about time someone looks after you, too. I mean, I know Esme and your mother do, and I know Cassandra does too, and I obviously do,” she says with a playful scoff and you chuckle softly. “But we can’t look after you like Steve would. Whoa, can I call him Steve? Or is that only reserved for you?”

You roll your eyes and lift your blanket over your face, covering your cold nose. Rambling Selena is always fun. “Really?”

“Right, silly question. Of course I can, I’m your best friend.” You snort. “As I was saying. Steve can offer the attention and care we can’t, in more ways than one.” She giggles salaciously and you groan into the fabric of your blanket. “What? Is sex off the table or something?”

You breathe deeply, turning on your back. “I don’t know? Maybe? Maybe not?”

“Would sleeping with Captain America be the worst thing to happen to you?” Would it? There’s no denying that you are definitely attracted to Steve, but it’s one thing to fantasize and another to have the ability to make that fantasy come true. And what if he doesn’t want to have sex with you? She sighs, as if reading your thoughts. “Talk to him about it. He did say you could come up with your own terms, right?”

“Yeah.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I say you throw sex on the list, but add that you’ll only have sex if you feel comfortable enough to. And if he forces sex on you, _fuck_ Captain America, not physically, but like, you know cursing him out. Or we could always curse him too, I made friends with some wicc—“

You laugh, knowing her rambling is only going to get worse as she gets sleepier, it’s the only way to stay awake for your sake. She may be three hours behind you, but she’s always been an early sleeper. “I think you and I need some sleep.”

She sighs dramatically. “You’re right. Let’s talk more about this when I’m less… delirious. This deserves our full attention, so you better call me when you’re free, you hear?”

“I promise I will.”

* * *

Cassandra’s eyes are hot on your side profile. It makes you regret asking Steve to meet you at the bar during your break this time around, but he was too busy to meet you earlier, and you were busy, too. You had a ten hour shift at the restaurant and during your break you visited your mom; and before heading for your shift at the bar you met with Esmeralda’s academic counselor, who indeed told you that Esme should think about joining more clubs and doing more activities—like cheer.

It solidified your decision on Steve’s proposal.

He takes a tentative sip of his beer, blue eyes bright even in the warm lighting of the bar—blue hydrangeas on the table pale in comparison. 

You take out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of your jeans. “I’ve never actually done this, so, um they might be a little juvenile…”

His pretty eyes scan your messy and unsure writing as he drinks in your words; your fingers rubbing hastily at a spot on the table. You mentally recite your terms, helped by Selena, but mostly written by you because she was going over the top with her suggestions (e.g. a gift delivered to your door every week, must cost over $100; roses sent to your work or home every week; a gift to my best friend every month unless she says she doesn’t need one; and so on—“What? He has money!” she said after you called her out for her ridiculous suggestions. “Isn’t the whole point of this him spending money on you?”):

  1. Clear communication about what we want going forward in this arrangement.
  2. Treat each other with respect.
  3. Must get to know each other.
  4. Affection, whether public or private, is okay, as long as it’s not manhandling.
  5. Sex is also okay, as long as we’re both comfortable with one another. 



A smile blooms on his face and he chuckles, only making your face heat up. You knew it! They are juvenile! Or was it sex? Maybe he wasn’t interested in sex with you? You don’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. “I could—I could rewrite them?”

His eyes snap to yours and his laughter subsides, but not the amusement in his eyes, they’re clear as day. “No—no, they’re fine, it’s just,” he pauses to reach into his own pocket to pull out his own paper. He offers it to you and you take it tentatively.

You eye him and he gives you a small nod, smile curving his lips. You unfold it and as your eyes scan his simple terms that are an exact replica of yours (just with minor word differences) with no mention of sex in his. Your eyebrows furrow and when you look up his eyes are still on you, warmth—that you’ve come to associate with him—in his gaze. His hand reaches for yours and he coaxes your fingers to let go of the paper to take your hand in his—your heart picking up at the rough ends of his fingers smoothing over your palm. 

“Just that,” he continues, eyes falling to his fingers caressing your skin, a small frown appearing on his lips, “I thought you wouldn’t be comfortable with sex being part of our agreement.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Should someone touching you as simple as this really feel this good? Are you really that touch starved?

He shrugs, still focused on memorizing the lines of your palm. “You didn’t want money in return for sex, remember?” It’s teasing the way he says it, looking up at you through his thick lashes, too long and beautiful for your liking (fuck, how can a man be so beautiful?) and a small tilt to his pink lips.

You snort, propping your chin on your hand that he isn’t touching, elbow placed firmly on the wooden table and written agreements momentarily forgotten and placed aside. “In my defense, it sounded like you were propositioning me. You could’ve just said you wanted a Sugar Baby from the start, Steve.”

He huffs a laugh, fingers dragging over your skin as he pulls away and you find yourself missing his touch. You have to stop yourself from chasing his warmth. “Believe it or not, I was too nervous to remember anything. Had a hard time forming sentences, too.”

You blink before a smile blooms on your face. “Does that mean we have an agreement?”

Blue eyes once more stare at you—no, into you. There’s concern and excitement whirling around, swimming against the currents they’ve both created around one another. “Have you really thought this through?” he asks, his voice barely heard over the music playing.

“What? This… arrangement or sex?” Because you have. You’ve probably annoyed Selena with all of your questions and concerns too.

He nods, not specifying which.

Your fingers reach for his hand resting on the table, but you hesitate before you can touch him and pull away. He frowns.

You can’t bring yourself to touch him, not yet. You focus on the LED candle lit on the table, avoiding his gaze. “Of course I have, Steve. I wouldn’t be here or have written it down if I hadn’t.” And if you’re being honest, you need this. You need the money and… and you need the affection and intimacy he could give you.

“It won’t be easy,” he tells you softly. “People are going to be prying everywhere we go—like now.” Your eyes follow his quick tilt of his head and your eyes meet the warm glow of Cassandra’s brown eyes. They widen and she quickly turns away, pretending to be cleaning the bar-top that she’s been cleaning excessively since Steve arrived. 

You shake your head and smile at your boss as she looks up again and returns your smile with a sheepish one.

“She won’t be the only one wondering what’s going on between us.”

“She’s harmless.”

He sighs, both hands wrapping around the body of his bottle. “I know. But that doesn’t mean the others will be.”

“Are you trying to scare me away? Plant doubts into my mind, because—“ because you already had those before Selena managed to chase them away; Steve bringing them up will only make you anxious again.

He rests his hand back onto the table, between you and him, just out of reach. “No, that’s the farthest thing from what I want.”

“Then…”

“What I want is for you to be certain.” His eyes soften. “Because if you are, I promise you I will do everything in my power to protect you and your family, to keep you and them safe.”

A lump forms in your throat.

This time you don’t hesitate, your fingers brush against his before you’re pressing your palm against his, fingers slipping between his with such an ease that it almost scares you. But you’re not scared. How can you be scared when Steve is staring at you so tenderly? When he sounds so confident unlike when he brought up this arrangement? When he’s not only just thinking about you, but your family as well? When his fingers and yours fall into place so easily? 

Yes, it might be hard, you’re aware of that, and he is too. However, if it means helping your family out of this situation, giving Esme a better chance in the future and being able to help your mom, you’re willing to try. “I’m sure, Steve.”

He squeezes your hand, a smile wiping away any visible concern on his handsome face. “Okay,” he says before repeating it again with a firm nod. His eyes move to the clock hanging next to the entrance to the kitchen and back room—your beak is almost over. “What time do you get off work? Let me take you home.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you assure him, trying desperately to keep your nerves down. You really don’t want to show him where you live, it’s not exactly the best place and if Esme’s home, you really don’t want her asking questions until you’re ready. “Cassandra usually gives me a ride home after work.”

“I want to give you a ride,” he says, face becoming serious. “We still have some things to discuss… like your aunt,” his voice lowers at the end, a brief flash of anger in his eyes, not directed at you, but at the woman who has been tormenting you, even if he doesn’t know all the details.

You gnaw the inside of your cheek and then sigh gently. “I help close, so I’m usually out by two, depending on how many are closing with us.”

He nods. “You don’t mind if I wait here?”

“I don’t, but are you sure you’re okay, waiting?” You check the clock and you frown—10:36 pm. He’ll be waiting for some time. “I won’t be out for a while.” 

“I don’t mind,” he reassures you, squeezing your hand once more.

You return to work, a little reluctant to leave Steve by himself, but he keeps himself occupied by using his phone and occasionally, you find him staring at you every once in a while, flashing you a small smile.

“You don’t know Captain America, huh?” Cassandra teases, elbowing you gently on your side as you make a drink.

“I didn’t,” you tell her, shifting on your feet to move away from her prodding. 

Her eyebrows wiggle suggestively, her eyes shining with mirth. “And now you do?”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile, but she knows you well enough to know that twitch and roll of your lips. “I guess so.”

She laughs and bumps your hip with hers. “Rooting for you, honey!”

If only she knew.

You’re busy the rest of the night. The bar is starting to gain some popularity again, and that means having to work even faster and harder. Steve at some point moves to the bar, leaving the booth that had been occupied by you and him earlier, but you prefer him being at the bar. It means he’s closer to you and it also means having his back turned to people who could possibly recognize him.

He’s not exactly wearing a disguise, baseball cap covering golden hair and being the only thing keeping people from recognizing him, but if he turns around and someone sober had already been looking at him, they’d know exactly who he is. His handsome face is unmistakable.

He smiles at you when he catches you staring at him and you return it bashfully before sliding another beer to him, his fifth one that night. Apparently with his super soldier metabolism, he doesn’t get drunk. Or hangovers.

Lucky bastard.

It’s not until half an hour before closing time that the bar starts to clear out, making it easy for you and the rest of your coworkers to clean up empty glasses and wipe sticky tables. Your feet are aching, but not enough to bother you for too long.

You’re carrying a tray of drinks to the back when Cassandra plucks it from your hands and grins at you. Your eyes widen and you stare at her with surprise.

“Go,” she says, motioning to Steve at the bar nursing a glass of water. 

As if knowing you’re talking about him, he lifts his gaze from his phone and flashes you a half smile that you return with heated cheeks.

“But I’m closing tonight.” It’s more of a question than a factual statement at this point.

“It’s fine. We’ve got things handled. Go! Don’t keep Captain America waiting,” she gushes with a wink.

You playfully groan and nudge her with your shoulder as you both slip into the back. “Will you stop?”

“Only if you leave!” she exclaims jovially, leaving the tray of glasses on top of the counter space of the small kitchen. She turns to you with a hand on her hip and leans against the counter. “Well? You gettin’ outta here or should I ask tall, blonde, and handsome to take me home, instead?”

“It’s not what you think, Cass,” you tell her as you open your locker.

“Uh-huh, sure it isn’t.”

“It’s not. We’re just getting to know each other.” Which isn’t a complete lie.

“Well, that intense hand holding didn’t seem like you’re just getting to know each other.” She’s only teasing, but something about her words have you pausing.

He might not have mentioned it, but it was kind of implied that people shouldn’t know about the kind of relationship (if you could even call it that) you and Steve have now. So it’s good that she thinks you’re together, right?

Cassandra calls your name and you turn to look at her, her brown eyes full of concern and you smile at her to ease that worry away. 

“We’re just testing out the waters.”


	4. you think you can open my heart?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> family can be pretty wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but shit happened--from car accidents to quarantine to a lack of motivation to name a few--and it was just really hard to write anything. I tried, but it was all shitty. Couldn’t even bring myself to finish this chapter, but I managed it, until I realized that part of this chapter wouldn’t fit in to this anymore and needed to be pushed back -insert grimacing emoji- so really this chapter could’ve been posted weeks ago lmfao IM SORRY

Quiet hums reach your ear as you stare at your phone’s screen, the large sum of money with too many zeroes staring back at you. It hasn’t even been a week yet and you’ve already received your first allowance— **first**.

You throw yourself back onto your twin sized bed and the spring mattress squeaks horribly under your weight; you ignore it as your mind drifts to your conversation with Steve a couple of nights ago, your phone still in your hands and resting on your stomach.

_“Even if you have a month left, it’s best to pay off the debt now.” As much as you wanted to pay attention to his blabbering, you were a little busy trying to keep your mind from how fast he was driving._

_He had started off slow, or as slow as the speed limit allowed, really, until he got wrapped up in your story about your mom’s cancer returning, your sister’s self sacrificing nature (“She takes after you then,” he said with a grin), and your aunt and her subtle threats that were no longer so subtle._

_Left hand gripped the seat tightly while your right hand clutched the handle on the roof. Your feet occasionally slammed down on the floor, braking whenever you felt Steve was going too fast for your liking. Wasn’t Captain America all about doing the right thing and following the law? Being safe? Honestly! He was lucky the streets were empty and there weren’t any cops in sight. You could have laughed at the imaginary headline: Captain America and His Sugar Baby Pulled Over For Driving too Fast. “Right,” is all you managed to say._

_“I can probably wire you the money tomorrow and then some,” he said, completely oblivious to your dilemma. You didn’t—and still don’t—know whether that was a good or bad thing. “We should probably figure out how allowance is going to work first, though—hey, are you okay?”_

_You ripped your gaze from the blur of the world outside, eyes a little wide to find Steve alternating between looking at you and the road. “Can you—can you maybe ease up on the gas a little?”_

_He blinked, eyes falling to his dashboard and soon the world started blurring less and your body was no longer trying to fight against gravity. You exhaled and let go of the leather seat that you’re sure you’ve scratched up, and he chuckled. “Bad habit,” he admits. “More used to my motorcycle than a car.” Right. Captain America rode a motorcycle._

_You leaned back into the seat and your head rolled against the headrest to look at him. “That’d explain it.”_

_He chuckled, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be more careful.”_

_“Yeah, that’d be great.” It’s sarcastic, and you almost feared he’d be mad but he only chuckled in response, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Huh._

_“So, allowance?”_

_Allowance. Right. That’s a thing. Allow-ance. Why is that such a weird word to you now? “I trust you.” (Selena had advised you a base price of 2,000 per meeting, but you thought—like most of her suggestions—it was ridiculous. “Give yourself some credit,” she had said when you scolded her.) “Whatever you think is right, I’ll accept.”_

_For a moment he mirrored your frown, until he nodded resolutely and smiled. “I’ll handle it.”_

And handle it he did. Not that you’re surprised that Avengers make bank because c’mon they’re heroes! You just didn’t think they’d make that much bank to spare this much money! Tony Stark? Sure. He owned a damn company—or was on the board, you don’t know anymore. But the rest? Not so much.

A familiar ring from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts and you don’t even bother checking who it is, you just accept the call. 

“Mornin’,” Steve’s voice greets you, a smile very much apparent in his voice and your heart does a flip. “I’m downstairs.”

You sit up hastily and in your hurry you almost fall off, eyes darting to the closed bathroom where Esmeralda is showering. “What?” Didn’t he say you were meeting at noon for lunch?

“My meeting got pushed back to this evening, and since you asked for the day off from the restaurant, I thought we’d make the most of the morning.”

“I’ll be down in a moment.” You pause when the doorbell rings. “Please tell me you’re not at my door right now.”

“No, but that might be Peter Parker.” How does he know—Shit. Right. He mentioned knowing the kid from his internship after you told him about your sister. “Just saw him enter the building with his friends.”

“Did he see you?” You really hope not.

“I don’t think so. If he had, the kid would’ve said something.”

You let out a relieved sigh and open the door just as you hear Ned say: “I swear that was Captain America downstairs!”

“What?” He said they didn’t see him!

“Morning,” Peter greets you as MJ rolls her eyes at Ned’s comment.

“I didn’t see anyone,” she says pointedly at him, before greeting you and smiling when you let them in.

You dumbly stare after them.

“It was him!” Ned insists, making a beeline towards the window facing the street and dragging Peter along with him.

MJ turns to you as she moves around the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room, not surprising. “Mind if I grab something to eat?” 

“Sure?” You still don’t know why she bothers asking.

“The windows are tinted, Ned,” Peter hisses. “I can’t see.”

“You got Greek yogurt? Oh. You do. Cool.”

Ned frowns and scratches his head, murmuring, “I swear it was him.”

You sigh, and drop your hand holding your phone without ending the call. “Can you tell Esme I got called into work?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, turning away from the window. “Sure!”

“And tell her to shoot me a text before you guys leave for school.” Peter nods, not really paying attention to you as he joins Michelle in the kitchen, already knowing the drill. “No dirty dishes in the sink.”

The last thing you see is MJ flashing you a thumbs up before you close the door behind you.

As you make your way towards the stairs, you lift your phone back to your ear. “Didn’t see you, huh?”

“I may have poked my head out of the window to say hi to the kid, until I heard them mention you and your sister.”

“Yeah. He usually picks her up, doesn’t like Esmeralda going to and from school alone,” you explain as you search around the street. With a sigh you immediately spot him. “Can’t you drive a least expensive car? You stick out like a sore thumb.”

He chuckles and you hear movement before seeing the driver door about to open. “I could always drive my motor—“

“No, no, no!” You rush towards him. “Do not get out of the car.”

“But—“

“Ned was looking out the window when I left,” you say, your eyes moving to the windows of your apartment, but thankfully don’t see him. “He still might be.”

He sighs, but obliges, the door closing.

“Thank you,” you tell him as you hang up the phone and open the door.

“They're bound to find out,” he says, raising an eyebrow in your direction as you buckle yourself in.

You know, and you tell him as much, “I don’t know how to exactly explain this—“you motion to him and you—“yet.”

He frowns, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as he pulls away from the curb. “Okay.”

He’s definitely not okay with it, but he lets it go for now.

He takes you to a small restaurant in Brooklyn. Light blue walls and leather seats with white and golden lights—it’s retro, super retro, but cozy. Steve keeps his sunglasses on and the bill of his hat low. It’s ridiculous if he thinks this is really a disguise that works.

The curious host leads you to a table in the back, away from prying eyes—hopefully—after you ask for a booth. He settles into the leather facing the door and you opposite of him, large painting being the only thing you have sight of other than Steve, and yourself if you turn to your left and stare at the mirror covering a third of the wall.

She hands you both menus and leaves after you take a quick scan of the drink menu.

“How effective do you think the sunglasses and hat are?”

“It’s covert,” he defends, playful offense in his voice.

You lean on your crossed arms resting on the table. “You’re literally wearing sunglasses indoors, Steve. That’s weird. And bound to attract attention.”

“Tony does it all the time.” Is he whining?

You snort, staring into the dark lenses, imagining where his eyes are. “Yeah, because he’s the Tony Stark.” He scoffs and you shrug. “He can do things like that and get away with it. Not like he’s actively trying to hide himself either.”

“Okay, I get it. It’s a little ridiculous.”

You grin, amused at the small pout forming on his pink lips. Who knew Captain America was a sulker. It’s cute.

Your assigned waitress comes by and takes your order after placing down your drinks that the hostess marked down for you both. You choose something light—a pesto caprese sandwich—compared to the hearty breakfast Steve orders for himself—a loaded omelet, heavy on the cheese. You smile up at the waitress, but you find that her eyes, although listening to you, are trained on Steve. He seems to notice, too, because he smiles politely before gesturing to you with a small incline of his head.

“How about we share a side of tater tots, sweetheart?”

You blink lazily at the nickname just as the waitress drops her gaze to you as if finally remembering that your voice belongs to an actual body. There’s a tingle that curves down your spine and you know he’s staring at you behind his dark glasses. His shoe nudges yours and his lips curl into a lopsided smirk. 

You recline your cheek against your perched arm and tilt your head further into your palm with a smile. “Anything you want, baby,” you coo and Steve lifts a playful brow in question, your smile only growing wider when he nudges your shoe again.

The waitress squirms and mutters something before scurrying away.

“Baby?”

Sweetheart? you want to shoot back, but instead you remain neutral, reaching for your drink with your free hand. “Better than calling you daddy.”

He straightens, visible skin turning red and you stifle a laugh as he shuffles in his seat. “I—“ You don’t break eye contact, if his eyes are following yours, as you wrap your lips around the paper straw and suck the sweet orange juice to coat your tongue. “You can call me anything you want, sweetheart.”

Interesting. “Even Stevie?”

“Anything,” he reiterates, leaning back into the seat to rest his arm over the backrest and you smile. “As long as I get the same privilege.” 

“It’s a deal, sugarplum.”

He snorts a laugh and you just shrug, trying to hide your smile with pursed lips. 

“Tell me more about your family.”

The question cools you down, smile effectively shrinking into tight lips. 

“Like?” you ask, suddenly finding the painting hanging behind his head much more interesting. It’s a simple painting of the beach, golden, warm colors contrasting with the beautiful cool shades of blue and white used for the ocean. 

“You told me about your mom and sister, even Peter and his aunt, but you didn’t mention your dad—unless,” his voice turns soft, posture relaxing as if to put you at ease, “unless you don’t want to talk about him. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be—“

“It’s okay,” you interject softly, lifting your head from your palm. “I just don’t know where to start.” He nods and removes his glasses with one hand as he reaches for one of your hands. “Um, my dad… he died in a car accident when I was 13.” You watch his fingers as they intertwine with yours, just like they did at the bar. Steve doesn’t seem like it, but he craves physical affection. Always seemingly touching you by holding your hand. Not that you mind it, it definitely comforted you, but you can’t help but wonder: why. “He was a good man. Smart. Loved us all very much. Loved technology,” you emphasized followed by a small laugh. 

He’d spend hours tinkering with home appliances to try and upgrade them. You loved those moments the most, when you’d sit by him and he’d ask for a tool and you’d hand it to him. He’d tell you what he was doing, explain every step and process and what that change would do. He nurtured your mind, treated it as his equal.

He squeezes gently and you let his warmth cover you. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug. “It’s okay. I’ve gotten over it.” He doesn’t mention the twitch of your fingers or the way your voice falters, he instead lets you change the subject. “I also have a brother that is 3 years older.”

Unlike your sister, you, and your dad, JC has always been more artistic, preferring to follow in your mother’s footsteps in learning how to play instruments and singing. He never understood your fascination with tinkering and creating, shunning your father’s activities when he tried to get all of you to help upgrade the television or stereo or whatever project he brought home from the lab.

He frowns at that, a little confused. You don’t blame him. You didn’t exactly mention him when you talked about Esme and your mom. “Did he move away?”

“Yep,” you pop the p, absentmindedly twirling the straw in your drink. “Moved out as soon as he turned 18. Would see him twice a year at best, but we used to hear from him often. Then after I turned 18 we never heard from him again.” And he made sure you wouldn’t be able to find him, too. Changed his number, deleted all of his social media, cut ties with his friends, and vanished. Not that you were surprised, he hated the struggle you and your family went through after dad died. You had always known he’d leave at some point. 

But you stupidly held onto the hope he wouldn’t leave when you needed him most.

“Oh.” He frowns, trying to think of what to say, maybe even offer to help look for him. But what would that do? That’d just bring him back to the life he wanted to get away from. 

You flex your fingers in his hold, just to readjust your grip on him and hum lowly. “It is what it is.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, but it somehow feels wrong when you think about the last time you spent with your brother. The hurt he caused when you woke up and he was no longer there. “Other times I—I don’t.” His thumb caresses the edge of your palm, barely grazing your wrist and you can’t help but let the negative feelings fade with his gentle touch. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he asks, soft with blue eyes staring into you. He knows you’re changing the subject, but he lets you. You don’t want to talk about JC anymore or even think about him, and it’s for the best.

“What’s your family like?” He looks at you as if you've grown another head and you flush slightly. “I meant your friends, Steve. You’re all like family, right?”

“Oh!” His eyebrows shoot up and he tenses for a moment before relaxing, smile worming its way onto his lip. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we are. They’re great. A little out there, but they’re good people.”

He tells you all about them; from Tony and Bucky and how the were able to set aside their differences when the world needed it most and how they bonded over their love of science; Natasha and Wanda and their bond as sisters, including the fact that they could most likely rule the world if they tried; Vision and Clint and their strange friendship that was born from trying different food; Sam and Sharon and their newfound relationship that everyone likes teasing; to Thor and Bruce and their bromance born from fighting in a planet a la gladiator style—all of them, telling you things you wouldn’t hear from television or read from articles with interviews. And from the way his eyes light up and his voice lightens, there's no doubt in your mind that he loves his family just as much as you love yours.

* * *

Your aunt stares at you with barely disguised distaste before unpleasant eyes move to Steve, who stands close to you still wearing his hat and sunglasses. No matter how many times you told him to stay in the car, he wouldn’t listen. “If she’s willing to send someone to threaten you, who knows what she’s capable of,” he had said, grabbing onto your hand before letting you go to get out of the car.

The check is flat on her desk, but she doesn’t move to pick it up. “How did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

She tutts, eyes boiling with restrained anger. “I don’t want stolen money.”

That’s rich coming from her. “It’s not.”

“I suggest you take it ma’am,” Steve speaks up, breaking his silence. “And consider the debt paid.”

She tilts her head, eyes taking over Steve properly, like a huntress on the prowl. “And who exactly are you?”

“That’s none of your business,” you answer for him, moving to stand in front of him and effectively cutting her gawking. “Just sign what you need to sign and we’ll be on our way.” And we won’t have to see each other again.

She stares unblinkingly at you before wearing a strained smile. She pulls out a file from behind her and flips it open to the correct page, signing it and stamping it along with the last page before ripping it out—a receipt—and handing it to you. 

You take it from her hands and scan your eyes over it—PAID. A giddiness bubbles in your stomach, but you hide it from her. “I would say it was a pleasure Magdalena, but it never is.” You turn on your heels and Steve is right behind you. “One more thing,” you pause at the door, Steve close enough to press his chest against your back. “Stay away from my family,” you warn before strutting out the door, smile curving your lips when you meet the disgruntled gaze of the man that had threatened you at your work.

He gives you a nod of acknowledgement as he makes his way into your aunt’s office.

“Say hi to Johnny for me,” she suddenly calls out just as he closes the door behind you, but it’s enough to throw you off guard. For your throat to close up and for you to stop in your tracks and for your hand to reach out for the hem of Steve’s jacket, barely caching the smirk she sends your way.

“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice floats to your ears, warm and soft. “What’s the matter? Who’s Johnny?”

“My brother,” you say through a breath. He couldn't have come—wouldn’t have come back. There’s no way. JC made it perfectly clear he never would. You shake your head. “She must’ve been lying. Trying to get a rise out of me.”

“It worked,” he points out obviously and you sigh as he gently pries your hand from his jacket.

You don’t want to admit it, but… “It did.”

“Come on.” He slips his fingers between yours and tugs you out of the desolate building and back out into the streets of Queens. “Let’s get out of here.”

There’s a bubbling in the pit of your stomach, heart hammering as you glance over your shoulder back at your aunt, the small relief you had felt at getting her off your back tainted by the thought of JC being back, not even Steve’s warmth can ease your worry.

But there’s no way—he wouldn't. There’s nothing left in Queens for him anymore, and there never will be.


	5. i need something fake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things are getting better and you're flying high

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not 100% proud of this chapter, but we're getting the ball rolling! ive also broken this chapter in two because this chapter was getting unnecessarily long after my little mishap from last chapter, so here's hoping you guys like this and the next part!

Your mom is finally home. 

She still has to go back to the hospital for a final check of her arm and the chemotherapy treatments she has left, but you can finally breathe with relief that she’s home.

Esmeralda seems to be more at ease now that she’s back, too, less reluctant to stay at home while you’re at work. Not that she had to worry about that anymore. With what you’re getting from Steve, you’ve been going back and forth with the idea of turning in your two weeks notice at the restaurant or cutting back your hours at least. But you still can’t completely decide. Selena says you should quit, and you haven’t been able to get Steve's input with him currently being away on a mission. But you have a feeling you know what his answer is going to be.

“You cleaned,” she says softly and you smile.

You shrug. “I did what I could.”

Esmeralda throws a pillow in your direction and you dodge out of the way, laughter bubbling from your chest. “I helped too!”

“Did you?” you tease, passing by her with a ruffle of her hair. “If I remember correctly, you were just throwing shit at me instead of cleaning.”

“I was not!” she shoots back, curling herself into your mom’s good side, legs over her lap and her arms around her shoulder and stomach. “I really wasn’t, mom.” She really is the baby of the family.

Before your mom or you can say anything, a loud banging from your neighbor causes you to jump. It’s soon followed by muffled yelling from Mr and Mrs Pallomari, the two trying to outmatch one another’s voices—nothing new.

Your sister sighs heavily and your mom shakes her head. A loud, “Fuck you!” resounds through the hallway and into your apartment as the door is slammed hard enough to shake the walls.

“Straight couples,” Esmeralda says in a serious tone with a deadpan expression she throws in your direction as if she were in the Office, after a moment of silence she breaks it with a giggle and you and your mom can’t help but laugh with her.

However, your laughter is cut short when there’s a bang on your door, the hinge making a horrible screech as if ready to fall over followed by a loud, “Fuck everyone!” 

Esmeralda sighs and stands up, moving towards your tool box. “I’ll check the door.”

You send her a gracious smile tinged with nervousness. “And I’ll get started on dinner.”

* * * *

You can’t sleep, body jerking awake with every sound you hear coming from the main hallway. Any little or loud sound could be Mr. Pallomari ready to fight with his wife and drag all of you into it, as he usually does. Their fighting hasn’t escalated in a while, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t again. 

It’s exhausting having to deal with them and all the shitty people that live in the building.

Not much you can do about that except move out. Maybe eventually you’ll have enough to do so. It’s plausible, but you don’t want to splurge, not yet anyway. Not until you’re more secure.

And besides, not everyone in this building is like them.

There’s Doña Garcia and her son Benito, who live across the hall from you. Sweet woman. And her son? A college student that your sister looks up to, having found a kindred spirit in him when she started questioning her sexuality. Both of them check in on your family whenever they have the chance, dropping off food when Doña Garcia cooks too much (but you have suspicions that she actually does it on purpose).

Then there’s Mayra, the sex worker who lives a floor below you, along with her five year old daughter, who you’ve fondly dubbed Juju; and her grandmother Marsha, who loves to gossip with Doña Garcia and your mother. You used to babysit Juju when you had the time, but now it’s Esmeralda who offers her assistance when she has the chance, which is rare since Marsha loves taking care of her granddaughter, but sometimes the older woman needs a break too.

Because of them, because there _are_ good people, you’re not in any hurry to move out, but maybe you should start keeping your options open, especially if you’re lying awake late at night in fear of your neighbor and his tantrums.

You sigh, throwing your arm over your eyes, the faint sounds of people yelling out in the streets and sirens wailing filtering in through the closed windows. Should you make yourself a cup of tea? No. The pot makes a lot of noise and you don’t want to risk waking your sister up. 

You reach for your phone resting on the coffee table and quickly unlock it to scroll through your Instagram feed. You would text Steve or Selena, but you’re afraid of messaging him in fear of getting him in trouble or waking up Selena, who is guaranteed to be asleep by now. For now, you settle on liking pictures from old classmates you no longer keep in contact with.

So many old faces getting married or having kids, graduating and getting their masters, or just having the time of their lives.

It’s amazing how easy it is to lose contact with people who were once your friends. Everyone got so busy, including you, to make ends meet that you were no longer able to keep up with one another. You wonder what life would’ve been like if you didn’t live like this, if you had actually finished school—would you be in grad school? Married maybe? Thinking about kids?

Fuck. This is why you usually stay away from Instagram. You hate yourself for ever allowing yourself to think “what if?” when all you can do is work towards a better future, not a different past.

Your breath stutters and just as you’re about to place your phone back down after liking _another_ picture of someone partying, it comes to life with Steve’s name. With your heart racing, you quickly answer.

“Steve! You’re back!”

He’s quiet for a moment and you suck in your bottom lip. “I’m back,” he finally says, soft and followed by a chuckle. “What are you doing up, sweetheart?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Did something happen?” He asks, worry ringing in his voice.

You stare up at your ceiling, not sure how to tell him about your neighbor. But it’s not important, and you’re most likely being paranoid anyway. “Not really, I just—mom is home and I've been kicked out to the living room. The couch isn’t very comfortable.”

There’s rustling on his end and you wonder if he’s getting ready for the night. “That’s great! Not you having to sleep on the couch, but your mom being home. How is she doing?”

“Fine. I think. Tired, but that’s nothing new.” He hums and you readjust yourself, pressing your back against the length of the couch's backrest as you turn on your side. “How was your mission?”

“Tiring,” he admits immediately, letting out a sigh—and he definitely sounds it. Frustrated too if that grunt he lets out absentmindedly as he moves around is of any indication. “Recon was a bust. Complete waste of time.”

“Is it okay for you to be telling me this?” 

He chuckles at your haste words and heat crawls up your neck. “Can’t give you details, but yeah, yeah I can. I _want_ to.”

Your grip on your phone laxes, and you hadn’t even realized how tightly you were holding it. “Okay, then vent away.” You wonder if he can hear the smile in your voice.

“I wasn’t expecting you to answer.” He pauses. “At best, I thought I’d hear your voice through your voicemail and that would’ve been enough for me. But being able to talk to you right now… it makes me forget how stressful this mission has been.”

A soft kind of heat envelops you, taking hold of your heart with every sincere word he speaks. “Steve…”

“So, there isn’t any need to vent about. Really,” he adds softly.

You cover your chin with your blanket as if to hide your ever growing smile from him, dumb really. Not as if he could see you right now. “I get it.” And you do. You really do. “I think… I think I’ll be able to fall asleep now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation lulls, his relaxed breathing filtering through the phone. And you can almost picture him sitting on the arm chair, head against the backrest, eyes closed as he breathes through his nose. Even when you close your eyes, you can feel his presence next to you.

Is this what it feels like to have someone to rely on? Someone who makes you feel safe and protected?

But your relaxation is short lived—loud noises and a male yelling fills the hallway, causing you to let out a gasp and to jerk up. On the other end of the line you hear Steve slur, asking you if you’re okay, but the noise drowns him out and a loud bang on your door causes you to drop your phone and to stand.

“Sis?” Esmeralda’s alarmed voice reaches your ears, and you quickly spare her a glance over your shoulder as she comes closer.

“It’s fine, Esme, go back to bed.”

“But—“

Another bang and the door makes a loud creaking sound. “Open the door, you dumb bitch!” 

Your heart tightens at Esmeralda’s wide eyes, fear slipping into them as they drift between you and the door. “Esme! Go back to bed, please. I’ll handle it!”

“He’s going to break the door!”

Before you can yell at her again, your door is thrown open and Mr. Pallomari stands in front of you, ragged and a complete mess. His eyes hazy and misted over—drunk. 

_Fuck_.

“Where is she?” He demands, face blotchy as he staggers forward.

You quickly stand in front of Esme, pushing her behind you, ignoring the way your heart races and breath picks up. “You have the wrong apartment, Mr. Pallomari! Your wife is not here.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

You need to get Esmeralda away from here. “Mr. Pallomari—“

“Where’s my wife?! Where is that bitch?!”

You push Esme further back and bend your neck to talk to her, doing your best to keep the drunk man in your peripherals, “Go. Call the police.”

“But—“

For fucksakes! Why doesn’t she ever listen to you? “Esme—“

“I’m going to kill her when I find her!”

It all happens so quickly that it almost feels like you’re dreaming—Esme lets out a loud shout and you turn just in time to watch Mr. Pallomari surge forward, his hands reaching for you. There isn’t enough time for you to push Esmeralda and yourself out of the way, not with your feet rooted to the ground—and before he can even grab an inch of you, his round body is tackled to the ground by a smaller, thin body.

“Benito?”

Benito has him by the arms, face pressed down to the ground, but he’s struggling to keep the older man's pudgy body down with his petite frame. It’s the concerned call of your name by Esme’s small voice that has you moving, dropping down to your knees and keeping a part of your weight on the buckling, drunk man to keep him down.

“ _Ay, dios mio_!” Doña Garcia exclaims and Benito lets out a frustrated huff as he asks his mother to call the police just as you do the same with your sister.

* * * *

“Thank you, officer.”

She nods and moves away from you to walk over to her partner as he pushes Mr. Pallomari into the back of the cop car.

“Good for Alicia for finally leaving her good for nothing husband,” Esme says, leveling a glare in the direction of the cop car flashing red and blue. “Poor woman needed a break.”

You crack a tired smile and wrap an arm around Esme, who leans into you. “She sure did. You okay, Bennie?”

Benito looks up from his phone, most likely texting his boyfriend about what transpired tonight, and nods. “Fine. A little sore,” he says as he circles his arm and holds his shoulder. “But I’ll live. What about you?”

“Rug burn—“ you kick your leg out to show off the wicked pattern on your knee from where you practically slid to help Benito—“but I’ll live too.”

He snorts. “I’m going to check up on our moms.” 

You nod as Esme pulls away and she looks up at you. “I’ll go with him and get started on the door.”

“Okay, I’ll be up in a minute.”

She squeezes your hand and follows after Benito, looking back at you once before disappearing behind the heavy metal door leading into the building.

Sighing, you cross your arms over your chest, gripping your forearms tightly as you watch the cops fill out some paperwork; Mr. Pallomari in the backseat with his eyes closed and teetering between the space of a drunken haze and sleep. Will he regret his decisions tomorrow? Or will he act like nothing happened?

Frowning, you’re not sure which one you’d like better.

You knew of people like Mr. Pallomari, regretting it for one night and then going back to the same old bullshit, pretending as if nothing ever happened. 

That kind of person isn’t safe to live with or be around, and—you hate thinking it, but—you’re not sure if all the good people you live around is enough to keep you rooted here anymore.

A frantic call of your name causes you to jump in your skin, hands falling to your side as your eyes widen when you spot Steve jogging in your direction with only a cap to conceal his identity. 

“Steve?”

You don’t get the chance to meet him halfway because he closes the distances between you two in record time, engulfing you in his strong, sweaty arms. His chest heaves under your ear and you stand there dumbfounded, not returning his hug.

How?

He pulls away from you to check you over, hands on your shoulder as his eyes rake up and down your tired form. For a moment relief fills his eyes but then they sharpen at the sight of your forearms—crescent shapes digging into your skin. “What the—”

“I did it,” you hastily mumble, returning your arms to where they were before, easily slipping your nails into the shapes they left behind. “Bad habit.” He sighs softly and removes your hands from your forearms, gently rubbing at the spots with his thumbs, and you relax at the touch. “What are—what are you doing here?” 

“I got worried,” he says, lowering his head as if to get a better view of your eyes under the bill of his hat. “I heard the yelling and—“ Shit! 

You tightly clench your eyes and hang your head, berating yourself for allowing him to worry. “I’m so sorry! I completely forgot to call you back!”

He breathes in and smiles lopsidedly as you meet his gaze, warily and sheepishly. “It’s fine. I’m just glad you’re okay.” His warmth leaves your arms, gaze moving from you to the cop car. A frown replaces his smile as he glares in that direction. “Is he—“

There’s a bubbling in your stomach, breath catching in your throat and a deep fear beginning to surface as Steve takes a step away from you. Without thinking, without realizing it, you’ve latched onto the hem of his grey v-neck, immobilizing him completely as he turns to look at you. “Don’t leave. Please.”

You can’t meet his gaze, you try; lifting it, but immediately hanging your head once more when they come to a stop at his chin. “Please.”

His chest rises and falls deeply. “Hey,” he starts softly, his warm, heavy hands falling onto your shoulder and pulling you into him. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

You press your face against his chest and quiet down the sob that escapes your lips.

“I’m right here,” he repeats softly, an arm wrapping around your back and the other slipping behind your neck, pressing you closer to him—and god you’ve never felt more thankful to have someone like him in your life. Someone who can hold you and look after you. “You did so good, baby. You were so brave. ‘M so proud of you,” he whispers into your hair, and you sniffle in response. “It’s okay to let it all out now. I’m right here for you.”

Your hold on his shirt tightens and you breathe him in, the smell of sandalwood, detergent and clean clothes filling your senses. “I just need a minute,” you mumble.

Something soft pressed against your head—a kiss, a soft kiss. “Take all the time you need.”

* * * *

Frustration is all you can feel as you walk around Queens looking for an affordable, vacant apartment. 

Esmeralda follows behind you dutifully, hands shoved into her pockets and barely holding back a grimace. Maybe you should’ve asked her to stay home, invite over Peter and the others to distract her. 

You both had tried fixing the door, changed the hinges, but the actual door? With another attack, the chance of the door breaking in half is highly likely. Your landlord doesn’t exactly use thick, sturdy doors, preferring the thinner less reliable models because it’s more cost efficient. And you’d think because it was cheaper, he’d get off his ass and replace the damn door, but getting him to do anything is like trying to tame a bull. And you can’t even buy the damn door yourself because then your stupid landlord will throw a fit and try to kick you out for fixing his damn apartment!

When you brought up the prospect of moving, Esmeralda had jumped at the chance, agreeing that there had to be someplace in Queens you can afford! Your mom was more reluctant, and unsure, but after a wave of optimism from Esmeralda, she had relented.

And that’s how you and Esmeralda find yourselves outside of another building with high rent. What was this? The tenth place you couldn’t afford? Another place that wasn’t even sure running your credit was worth it?

“Why is everything so expensive?” She finally breaks her silence and you pause in your steps to look at her.

“Hey, we just gotta keep looking. I’m sure there’s a place out there that we can afford.”

“Yeah,” she says with a snort. “With the same shit heads we’re already surrounded by.”

You can’t bring yourself to scold her. You’ve had those thoughts, too, but you’ve always caught yourself before your thoughts could get worse. Because it isn’t fair, not to the people who have been nothing but good and kind to you, and not to your mother who has tried her best to give you everything she could. “Esme,” you start slowly and she grimaces.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—I’m just tired.”

“I know, baby.” You approach her slowly, like one would with a small, frightened kitty, and take her hand in yours. ”Let's call it quits today and go home. We can stop by a bodega and get ingredients for those chicken enchiladas you love so much?”

“With queso fresco?” she shyly asks, her earlier frustration melting and showcasing that joyful youth that is rare to see in her.

“With queso fresco,” you promise, the two of you walking with your hands laced together like when you were children walking home from school.

The three of you stuff yourselves until you can’t eat anymore and even make sure to feed Doña Garcia and Benito as a thank you.

When you pack yourself a lunch for your break, your sister whines that you’re stealing her leftovers, but you only stick out your tongue and place it into your bag—all the while hoping Steve will like it.

The bar is alive with soft chatter and noise; Cassandra is behind the bar with a coworker and new hire you’ve been helping train. You clocked out five minutes ago, but you find yourself occupying the booth in the dark corner, watching Steve as he takes a forkful of the enchiladas you made earlier with Esme straight out of the Tupperware.

His mouth closes around the fork and his eyes close, letting out a sinful moan as he slowly pulls the fork out of his mouth and chews.

“Good?” you ask when his eyes flutter open to reveal brilliant blue eyes.

“So good,” he affirms. “Really good.” His lips form into a teasing smirk. “You sure you made these, sweetheart?”

“Hey!” Reaching over the table, you smack his arm with a pout and he bubbles in laughter. “Gimme that, you don’t deserve the rest of these—“

With the quickest reflexes you’ve ever seen, Steve pulls the plastic container away from your reach and beside his being where you can’t grab it unless you round the table. “It was a joke, sweetheart. Promise.”

You let out a mock of a huff, fighting off the smile that’s trying to work it’s way to your lips. “It better be.”

He chuckles and takes another bite, moaning and humming as he goes, practically cleaning out the dish. Watching him devour the whole thing causes pride to swell in your chest.

Resting your elbow on the table, you cradle your cheek. “I probably should’ve brought you more, huh?”

“I’d probably be able to eat a whole tray of these.” You believe him.

“You’d probably have to fight Esme for it.” He laughs and you grin. “But I’ll keep that in mind.” For next time, are the unspoken words. Because there will be a next time and you’re looking forward to it. Is he?

He pauses, eyes skipping up at you and softening as they roam your face for a moment too long, your breaths stalling until he finally says: “I’d like that.”

You breathe out and smile. “Good.”

He flashes you a toothy grin. “How has the apartment hunting been?” Whatever Steve sees in your face causes him to place down the fork and reach for your unoccupied hand. “That bad?”

“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. “Rent has really skyrocketed over the years. I’ll probably have to rescind my resignation from the restaurant at this point.”

“Let me help you,” he says with a squeeze of your hand. 

“Steve—“

Before you can tell him he’s done enough, he interrupts you, thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. “My job is to make your life easier, remember? If helping you find an apartment and helping pay rent does that, then I’m willing to do just that.”

You purse your lips, eyebrows drawing together as you think about it. “You really have done too much, Steve. I feel like I haven’t done enough—“

“Are you kidding me? Just knowing I have you, that I can be able to call you after a mission—all of that has done wonders for me sweetheart.” Your breath hitches at his confession and you can’t help the heart that crawls up your neck. “If it really bothers you that much, why won’t you be my date for the upcoming charity gala Pepper and Tony are hosting at the tower?”

He knows that’s part of your agreement! If he needs a date, you’ll be there. Why is he giving you more than you can give? “That’s a given, Steve.” You bite your lip. “Just promise me you won’t go over the top? Even if it’s just a one bedroom apartment in a moderately safe area, I’d be okay.”

* * * *

He didn’t go over the top, but _my god_ did he almost. 

Not only is it close to May and Peter’s place, but it’s also close to your mom’s clinic. No more having to pay ridiculous prices during rush hour for an uber or cab, no more having to worry about something happening to Esme or your mom on the subways or walking home.

No more.

Your eyes scan the front of the house; it’s light blue, cute with a small patio where a lemon tree is growing, a few specks of yellow showing on the top of it and your heart drops to your stomach only to fly back up and smack itself against your rib cage—it reminds you so much of your childhood home. Your small little home with blue coated walls and yellow window panes that you and JC hated so much because it clashed with the dark blue exterior—“it gives the house personality” your parents would say.

“Steve…”

He smiles down at you, taking your hand in his and pulling you with him. “Come with me.” Pushing open the small white gate, he gently tugs you along with him up the three steps leading you to the front door. He slowly inserts the key and opens the door, and moves aside, allowing you to enter first.

Your hand never leaves his as you enter and he follows after you, not allowing his fingers to slip away from yours. 

“Welcome home,” he murmurs, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling.

You stifle a sob trying to push through your throat, eyes taking in the beautiful, newly renovated home—wooden flooring, fresh painted walls, gorgeous L shaped stairs leading upstairs—and you have to blink to will the tears away. You turn to Steve and find him already looking at you, gauging your reaction, and he looks so soft and proud and happy and—and, god you want to kiss him. 

So you do.

You kiss him softly, slowly, tentatively and unsure, and every other synonym of those words. He’s frozen under your touch, completely unaware of what to do, and your heart stutters. Too soon? As you begin pulling away, his hand leaves yours to wrap around your waist and tug you impossibly snug against him, his lips landing on yours for another take—one you gladly accept.

Your arms wrap around his neck, bringing him down closer to you and one of his hands cradle the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin

He tastes so _so_ sweet—sweet like juicy strawberries straight from their bush during a warm, Spring day.

And you don’t think you’ll ever get enough. _God_ , why did you take so long to do this?

His forehead rests against yours and one corner of his mouth lifts into a confident, boyish smile. “I guess that means you like it?”

Laughter bubbles out of your throat and you nod. “Like it? I love it. More than you can ever know. Thank you.”

The hand on the back of your neck, smoothly cups your jaw as he lets out a sweet sigh. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

His lips dance against yours and his warmth wraps around you, and you know you’ve found something with Steve, something that you can’t quite put into words, something you don’t know if you want to put into words.

Not yet.

A couple of days later, you’re settling everything with your old landlord and moving into your new home. Your mother couldn’t believe it and neither could Esmeralda, but once you told— _lied to, really_ —them that Selena found an old friend of hers that was renting their home because they were leaving out of state, your mother and sister accepted the keys you dangled in front of them.

May and Peter immediately offered their help; Doña Garcia and Benito did too; and so did Cassandra and a few of your coworkers from the bar. Steve tried to offer his help, too, but you waved him off, promising to let him know when you were completely moved in. He begrudgingly accepted, not like he had a choice. He was sent on another mission during that period of time. You miss him, and even though you know he couldn’t check his phone, you send a message everyday with your move-in progress.

Esmeralda throws herself onto the sofa as your mom hums in the kitchen, and you can’t help but send Steve the selfie you took with Esme and your mom when the living room was completely furnished.

A smile blooms on your face as a text bubble appears and your finger smooths over your lips, strawberry lingers on your lips and as you read his message, you want to taste him again.

**You look beautiful, sweetheart—all three of you do.**

**Can’t wait to see that beautiful smile of yours in person soon xx**


	6. its just manners to pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has been perfect for you and Steve; on the night of gala things get a little steamy, but the bliss of the night doesn’t last as long as you had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. It’s been half a year since I’ve uploaded and I apologize. 2020 hasn’t been the kindest to me or my family and I’m still reeling from everything that happened and is happening.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and I’m sorry for any mistakes, will be revising it again soon just to make sure I got all of them out of the way!
> 
> Warning: there is also mild smut near the end!

Esmeralda watches you from her place on the sofa, the remote in her hand jiggling and occasionally hitting her lips. It’s unnerving how intensely she’s staring at you.

Lifting your eyes momentarily from the _daal_ you’re preparing for your mom, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing,” she says with a shrug, a little smile on her face.

You taste the tomato and the seasoning, finding it blander than you usually make it, but it’ll be perfect for your mom’s current taste-buds. “I know that look and that look doesn’t mean _nothing_.”

She sits up and makes her way over to you. “It’s just—I’m happy.”

You glance up at her and find her standing behind you. “Yeah?”

Her arms wrap around you and she nods into your back. “Having you and mom home, having a new place, it’s surreal.”

You exhale softly, the warm spices and the vegetables lingering in your nostrils as you maneuver Esmeralda to your side instead of having her cling to your back. “I know what you mean.”

“I hope it lasts.”

“It will.” You squeeze her, pressing a kiss to the top of her curls. “I promise it will.”

“I believe you.” She looks up at you, eyes narrowing, pout forming. “Just promise you won’t do anything stupid to keep it.”

You grin toothily, making another promise that she accepts by digging deeper into your side.

The sounds of the kitchen fill the air, Esmeralda sticking to your side, never leaving it even when you need to drain the lentils.

Your mom pads into the kitchen and upon seeing you two, she also presses herself against your other side; the three of you laugh and argue as they try to steal bites before you can even add the lemon juice into the dish. 

It’s normalcy; a normalcy you haven’t been able to experience in such a long time. And you wouldn’t let anyone take that away from you, not anymore.

* * *

“Are you sure you can be out here?” you ask Steve, keeping a, what you hope is inconspicuous, eye out as the escalator takes you downward onto the second floor. 

The mall is full of people shopping and taking advantage of the current sales, something you were also hoping to take advantage of, but now with Steve’s hand in yours, his warmth pressed to your side, you’re not sure it was such a good idea.

“We’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he promises softly into your ear, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of it. 

You look up at him and he smiles down at you, beautiful blue eyes still obstructed by stupid sunglasses. “We check out _one_ store and then we leave okay?”

The corner of his pretty pink lips pull down into frown. “Don’t you want to take your time?”

Maybe in other circumstances you would’ve, but the thought of Steve being recognized while being with you, it has your little hairs on edge, practically standing with a life of their own.

“No,” you squeeze his hand, “I’ve got a dress in mind.” You had seen it online as you casually scrolled through the options Selena had helped you find, it was also the only one she added a message to— _easy access_? _Just kidding! But seriously, isn’t this dress gorgeous? I think you’ll look lovely❤️_

The price was a little steep and a little out of your budget, but your mind wouldn’t stop picturing you in it—seeing that the store was having a sale only solidified your decision.

Stepping away from the escalator, he tugs you as close as he can get you, eyes ever vigilant like the soldier he is. It’s something you’ve noticed whenever you’re outside of the safety of his car, and you guess it comes with being an Avenger. But you’re starting to think it might be—more often than not—for your benefit, because any time someone so happens to take a candid picture of him with one of the other Avengers, he doesn’t seem to be _this_ alert.

You squeeze his hand and when he glances down at you, his mouth relaxes into a soft smile, one that makes you push up on your toes and press a light kiss to. He chases after you when you pull away, pouting when you teasingly refuse to meet his lips once more.

“Baby,” he whines, soft and sweet and all you do is smile, tugging him towards your destination. 

The store you chose is more of a boutique, less of a chain store. A lot of their dresses are unique to them, carrying only a few name brand items like _Marc Jacobs_ , _Chanel, Dior_ and a few other names you don’t recognize such as _Bouchra Jarrar_.

Unlike the surrounding area, the store is quiet with a low hum of music playing from their speakers. Strong perfume attacks your nostrils the very moment Steve opens the door for you, and you’re not sure whether you like the smell or not. It’s not sweet like the ones you’d usually smell at a _Macy’s_ or _JCPenny_ , but it’s not dry either—Jasmine, maybe?

“Welcome,” a woman dressed in black immediately greets you, a practiced polite smile already in place over her smooth skin. “Is there anything I could help you with?”

It’s a little intimidating the way she seems to stare into you, as if she knows you’re not the type of person to usually walk into stores like this one, but you push that thought away, instead taking on a smile to mirror hers. “Yes, thank you. I’m actually looking for a [ blue dress—lantern sleeves and tulle gown ](https://www.etsy.com/listing/894009381/long-dress-the-lantern-sleeve-dress-maxi?show_sold_out_detail=1&ref=nla_listing_details)?”

“We may have the dress you’re looking for.” Her eyes light up with recognition and she leads you further in where there are a few lingering customers and employees. Steve pays them no mind, ignoring the blatant stares to his physique as he removes and pockets his sunglasses and instead keeps close to you and occasionally surveying the store and it’s wares.

She asks you your size, and once you give her your measurements, asks you and Steve to wait for a moment, disappearing into the back where you assume they keep their dresses not on display and their variety of sizes.

Wrapping an arm around Steve, you find him glancing around still, a little stiff, only relaxing when his eyes settle on yours.

“Mind taking the dress home with you?”

“Why?” He frowns, curious as to why you wouldn’t want to take it with you.

You reach up to run your thumb over a corner of his lips, saying, “Esme has a tendency to go through my things.”

“Trying to steal your clothes?” he asks, lips lifting into a half smirk.

“She’s too tiny to fit into my clothes.” You laugh and shake your head. “She’s just used to having to go through my things to find hers. It’s a habit that comes with having to share a space.”

His gaze softens and he cups your jaw. “What about now?”

“She sometimes sneaks into my bed in the middle of the night.” You sigh with exasperated fondness. “But I can’t say I mind. It’s weird having so much space to myself now.”

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “A good weird?”

“A good weird,” you assure him, leaning into his touch.

“Good.”

Someone clears their throat and you and Steve are slow to detach yourselves from one another, in no complete hurry to face the saleswoman. 

It’s a little embarrassing having been caught in such an intimate position, but looking around the store, it makes you realize that you might’ve been caught a long time ago and neither of you noticed.

Steve just makes it so easy to forget your surroundings when he looks at you, makes you feel like you’re in a space of your own. It’s such a weird thing to say about someone you met only a few weeks ago, but it’s true. Whether you’re at the bar, or in his car, or even talking on the phone, it’s as if you’re the only two people in the room.

That’s a little dangerous when you think about it, but it doesn’t really matter to you. You like feeling like you’re the center of his universe and he probably likes being the center of yours too, if the way he squeezed you to him is of any indication.

“May this be the dress you’re looking for?”

Your eyes widen as she brandishes the gown, holding it up for you to see it. “Yes!”

Steve chuckles and you look up at him in question, finding him looking down at you with delight. 

“You’re vibrating,” he teases you. “It’s cute.”

Embarrassment coats your skin, but you still face the lady. “May I try it on?”

“Of course! This way, ma’am.”

You’re quick to follow her, excusing yourself from Steve and he lets you go reluctantly, promising to wait by the loveseats. You don’t leave without a quick kiss to his cheek.

It takes a minute to get on the dress and you absolutely adore it! It looks amazing on you! There’s some changes that need to be done to the bodice, but other than that—

“You look phenomenal,” the sales lady gushes as soon as you step out. 

But you don’t really care what she thinks, instead you focus on Steve, and your heart just about does somersaults at the way his gaze drinks you in—shades of blue glowing bright as they take down the length of your body, the tips of his ears turning red, and pretty pink lips smacking together.

“What do you think?” you murmur, unsure if he’d heard you, but he does, of course he does.

“Beautiful,” is his one word reply, said in one breath and you practically melt. “So beautiful.”

“Yeah?” You shyly duck your head, grabbing the tulle skirt and pulling slightly to show off the slit a bit more. “Not too much?”

“It’s just right, baby,” he says, soft and sweet. “Let me get it for you?”

“No,” you respond with a shake of your head, already heading into the dressing room to change. “I’m paying for it! Besides they’ll probably need to do some alterations first.”

“We may need to adjust the bodice,” the lady helping you informs him, slipping into the room with you, measuring tape in hand and is quick to have you stand still and write down your measurements. “And the length of the sleeve.”

She steps out and you change into your day wear hastily when you hear Steve and the lady murmuring behind the closed door.

“Steve,” you start, barging out of the room to find him standing alone, flashing you a shit eating grin. You groan internally, narrowing your eyes in his direction.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t give me that look.”

“You paid for it.” Not a question, but a fact, one he doesn’t deny. 

“Paid a little extra to have the dress done on time and to have it delivered to my place, too.” And he says it so proudly.

“Steve!”

“It’ll be easier this way.” He shushes you, collecting you into his arms and leads you to the front of the store where the lady is ringing him up. “We can get ready at my place, maybe have a bit of dinner and then head out.”

You sigh, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him; the deed’s done and he’s not about to change his mind. “Fine,” you relent, leaning into him and smiling up at him, “but only if I get to make dinner.”

“We’ll both make dinner,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, lacing his fingers with yours.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re going to a gala,” Selena says, her voice filtering through your earphones as you climb up the stairs of the station and out into the streets of Brooklyn. “A Stark gala no less! Remember when we thought that was impossible?”

“Still is, Sel.”

“For me maybe, not for you.” She snorts.

“Yeah, but for how long?” You sigh heavily. “You overestimate this arrangement.”

“Oh, shut it! You’re not already thinking of ending it with Steve, are you?” 

“Of course not,” you sputter, ignoring the glare a bald man with a scar on his lip sends you after bumping into you. Seriously, why get mad at you when he’s the one that bumped in to you?

“I would surely hope not, my love.” There's some shifting on her end and her voice lowers, “You need this. And according to what you’ve told me, he needs this too.”

“I know,” you agree, keeping your voice low. “This has been good, I think.”

“Not you _think_ , it definitely has _been_.” She sighs dreamily. “I’m so happy for you. Things are starting to look up!”

A siren suddenly whirls to life, a cop car zooming by you in the opposite direction.

“Heads up, though—” you hum in response, checking the address Steve sent you again—“Esme is a little suspicious.”

That makes you pause, lifting your gaze from your phone. “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t believe your story about the house.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. “Are you sure?” You thought she had bought it! But you should’ve known Esme would catch on. Everything about the move was too smooth and sudden. You let out a frustrated groan. “Please tell me—“

She doesn’t need to let you finish to know what you’re asking. “Who do you think I am? Of course I didn’t.” You know she wouldn’t, but Esmeralda can be pretty relentless when she wants to be. “I doubled down and backed you up.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “ _God_ , I love you.”

“I love you too.” She laughs, but it dies down with a sigh of her own. “But be careful. Esme is smart, ridiculously smart. She’s not going to let this go. She’s bound to find out and I still think you should tell her before she does.”

“I—I know. I just… I don’t want her to think badly of me.”

“Darl’, that little girl has always looked up to you,” she coos. “Nothing you do will ever change that. You could probably murder someone and she’d help you get rid of the body and destroy any evidence that could possibly convict you without you needing to ask.”

You laugh and bite your lip. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Of course! And besides, being a sugar baby is nothing to be ashamed of. She’d probably be cheering you on with me!”

You really hope so.

“She loves her family.” That’s… not entirely true.

“JC?” You mostly say it out of jest, but there’s truth in you questioning her affections towards JC. She has strong feelings towards him, not exactly the kind that are positive. When she found out JC was gone, seven year old Esme called him a coward and told you not to cry for him, that you didn’t need him when you had her.

God. No seven year old should feel the need to say that or even feel that way to begin with. Not about their big brother who should be protecting her.

She sighs. “Your brother is an asshole and your sister never really knew him, not like you.” She’s right, but you can’t help but worry still. You don’t want to disappoint her. Not like he did. “Speaking of him… has your aunt mentioned him again? Have you seen her?”

“No to both,” you admit. Thankfully. “Not since I paid off mom’s loan. Probably doesn’t even know we moved.”

“Good. Let's hope it stays that way.”

“Do you—do you think she could’ve been lying?”

She’s silent for a moment, enough to make you think the connection might’ve dropped. “From what you’ve told me about her, your aunt would do anything to rile you up. That’s probably why your dad kept her at arm's length.”

“Yeah…” 

You turn into a quiet neighborhood of beautiful brownstones, like the ones you’d see on TV or in random searches on Zillow worth over millions of dollars. It’s like being hit by whiplash walking through this neighborhood—too clean, too quiet, too nice, so many trees too.

It’s eerie. 

You scoff silently at yourself—it’s just a neighborhood. Sure, a quiet one and nothing like your old bustling neighborhood full of yells and laughter, smells of _platano frito, pan dulce, costilla de puerco en salsa verde_ , and all types of cuisine filling the air, but Steve wouldn’t live around this area if he didn’t think it were secure.

“Why don’t we change the subject, huh? Are you ready for tonight?”

“Nervous,” you admit, fiddling with the cord of your earphones.

This is a huge event, one full of Avengers and many other influential people. Any wrong move on your part will put not only you, but Steve under scrutiny. But Steve had assured you that you’ll do fine. He’ll be by your side all evening and if it becomes too much, you’ll both leave. 

“We’re a team,” he had said after you opposed leaving just because you weren’t comfortable. “The moment something or someone makes you feel uncomfortable, you let me know and we’ll get out of there—no questions asked.”

“But also excited,” you whisper, almost afraid of the fact that you _are_ excited. There’s been a bubbling in your chest since the moment you woke up that you couldn’t quite distinguish as nerves, excitement, or both.

When Selena mentioned how you and her used to talk about attending a Stark event as big as a gala one day, she was putting it lightly. 

You both used to spend hours scrolling through the university computers and dream of what you’d wear, make jokes about how you’ll talk and walk and try to fit in for a night—until you’d both get warned by one of the computer lab workers that you were being too loud. 

But they were just that, dreams. Now, here you were, about to get ready for one and not only that, you were going to attend the event with one of the most eligible bachelors known to man. And you’d be lying to yourself if you’d say you weren’t excited.

“I bet!” She laughs and she suddenly grows quiet on her end, barely heard murmuring reaching your ears. She sighs. “Unfortunately, I have to go, but you _will_ update me tomorrow!”

“I promise.”

“Enjoy the night for the both of us, please! Love you!”

Laughing, you wish her a good evening and “love you, too,” before hanging up. It doesn’t take you long to find Steve’s place soon after that.

His brownstone home is identical to the others except for maybe being a darker shade of brick. Climbing up the steps, you dig out the key Steve had given you the other day and let yourself in.

Immediately you’re hit by the smell of seasoned chicken and the sounds of sizzling—of course he started cooking without you. Always wanting to take care of you.

“Steve?” You call for him, removing your belongings and hanging them up on the mounted coat rack.

“Kitchen, sweetheart!

You shake your head and eye the foyer, noticing the rack of shoes by the bay window and place your own shoes next to Steve’s. Your sock covered feet pad against the light wood flooring.

“You started without me?”

“Just the chicken!” He calls back as you move past the living room and dining room—they're simple and modern, sleek designs that compliment each other. The walls, however, are empty.

It hardly looks lived in. There’s nothing out of place, except for maybe the jacket hanging over the back of the sofa, but that’s it. Reminds you a little bit of those Architectural Digest home tours you see on YouTube or like a staged home for sale.

You frown. Maybe Steve just likes it all very clean?

Steve’s back is to you, keeping an eye on the chicken on the pan. He only turns his head when you wrap your arms around him. 

“Hey, sweetheart, find the place all right?”

“Yep!” You hum, leaning slightly to get a peek of the chicken—golden and with little specks of Italian seasoning. Looks so good! “Your place is really nice.”

“It’s okay.” He chuckles, doing his best to press a kiss to the top of your head, and you help him by standing on your toes. “Most of the furniture was picked out by Natasha and Tony.” Ah, well that makes sense. “Guess I should thank them for it.”

“You should.” Untangling yourself from him, you walk over to the kitchen’s island where the sink is and wash your hands. “What do you need help with?”

“Salad.” He motions to the veggies placed on the countertop. “The pasta can wait for a bit longer.”

“Yea, sir.” You nod and dry your hands with his light blue hand towel. 

You both work in tandem and dinner is served in no time, the two of you sitting at the island instead of the dining table.

“Bucky and Sam live here part time,” Steve tells you after a leisure sip of his wine. “Well, Bucky does. Sam is slowly starting to move into Sharon’s. The house was too big for me when I first got it and Bucky and Sam jumped in to be roommates.”

“That’s pretty sweet.” You crack a smile. 

He chuckles, eyes falling to his clean plate, having eaten more than one serving. “It’s not much different from living on the compound.”

“Wait, you live there too?”

He nods. “It’s easier, more practical. Sometimes a mission takes too much time and can be pretty tiring.” That also makes sense. “I guess I also only live here part time.

“I was actually going to offer you and your family to live here, but I thought since it might be a little weird to explain to your family two Avengers coming and going at random intervals wouldn’t be ideal,” he admits, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “Sam actually helped find the place you’re currently living in. The owner is an old friend of his, who was looking to rent.”

You watch him carefully, the way his eyes waver from you to the plate, the tip of his ears burning—not able to keep his gaze on you for long.

He deserves more from you.

“What if I told Esme?”

He finally meets your gaze, eyebrow raised.

“About you—us—our arrangement,” you stumble over your words, trying to pick them correctly, but you’re not very good at it. “I know you’re okay with it, but we did agree not to tell anyone. Then again, Selena knows.”

He nods slowly, already aware that your best friend knows. “And most of the team knows, too.” Which is still completely wild to you.

“It’s a little odd explaining this.” You push your empty plate away and bite your lip, gesturing to him and you. “I wouldn’t know how to tell my mom, but Esme…”

“If it’s what you want, I think you should.” He smiles reassuringly, his large hand settling on top of yours on the marble top and covering it completely with his warmth.

“It is.” You turn your palm over to intertwine your fingers with his. “And—and I think she’ll like you.”

You know she would. All Esme has ever wanted for you is the best and your happiness, so you know she would.

“And I’m sure I’ll like her.” He grins. 

* * *

Steve’s shower is amazing. It’s basically a warm waterfall drenching you fully as you wash away the day’s grime. Steve had told you it was his favorite part of the master bathroom and you now know why. Your plan to spend a short amount of time cleaning up is completely thrown out the window the moment you turned it on.

But you force yourself to hurry—you have plans, and although you would like to spend hours in the shower, it’s best to start getting ready for the night.

You wrap yourself up in the fluffy towel Steve set out for you and promptly dry yourself. 

Steve makes noise as he moves around in the other room, the hallway walk-in-closet, as you first called it when Steve led you through it from the master bedroom to the bathroom.

You do your best to get ready in a timely manner, drying your hair and doing something quick, easy, but still elegant enough that no one will notice you were in a rush. As for makeup, you also go with something easy. You do your usual routine, but add in a bit more color to your lids and lips, and even dramatic, fake lashes to make your eyes pop. With a few spritz of setting spray, you deem yourself almost presentable.

Slipping on your dress, you reach as best as you can and try to zip yourself up, but it’s futile, you need help.

“Steve!” He answers you with a loud, muffled, “ _yeah?_ ” “Can you come here for a minute?” The door opens and he walks in, completely focused on fiddling with his cuff link. “Do you mind—“ your question trails off when his gaze lifts to your form and comes to a sudden halt. 

But you hardly notice his gawking, your own eyes trailing over his dressed form— _Fuck_ . He looks good. _Too_ good. Can’t keep my hands to myself, good. His royal blue dress shirt matches your dress and it absolutely looks delicious on his toned body. And those dress pants? God, they’re clinging to his thighs.

“You look like an absolute dream, baby.” Arms wrap around your form and he slowly zips you up, his eyes trapping you in place. 

“So do you.” Your breath hitches when his eyes drop to your lips and back up to your eyes. 

“If I told you we should stay in and have our own party—“ his forehead falls to yours—“what would you say?”

“We have plans, soldier.” You wrap your arms around his neck and laugh under your breath. “Can’t just drop them.”

He groans and the sound punches you in the ovaries, a little mewl escaping your lips and he pulls you closer to him—chest to chest. “Can I at least kiss you before we leave?”

“You can kiss me anytime, Cap.”

He does and it’s mind blowing, a mess of teeth and tongues and he makes it so hard to breathe, but you don’t want to pull away, instead you sink your hands into his hair, his once perfectly well done hair, and tug firmly. He groans into the kiss, chest rumbling against yours and he pulls away, leaving you chasing him in disappointment.

“Sorry, honey.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, in fact, he sounds pleased. That little shit, he’s enjoying teasing you! His fingers trace your bottom lip and you refuse to open your eyes. You have a feeling if you catch sigh of him, you won’t want to let him go. “I’d love to kiss you all night, but you’re right, we have plans.”

“Is it too late to change my answer?” you joke as his thumb leaves your lip and you finally open your eyes only to regret it. His lips look so pretty swollen and red, eyes absolutely dark and delicious—blues of his eyes only a thin ring. Would he mind if you just tackled him to the ground and took him right there and then?

“The car should be here any minute now.” He chuckles, slowly stepping away from you. 

And although you’re both getting ready to leave, you can’t help but think tonight might be the night.

* * *

Your leg bounces as the Compound comes into view. Your eyes are practically glued to the window, watching the line of cars and all the glamorous people that step out of each one. They all look so sophisticated and well put together, and here you are, a sugar baby trying to fit in.

 _Shit_. Maybe you’re more nervous than you thought you were. Is it too late to turn the car around now?

Warmth wraps around your hand and lifts it, surprising you and finally pulling you away from the window.

Lines are apparent on his forehead, but there’s a reassuring smile on his lips as he kisses the back of your hand. “You’ll do fine, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your shoulders sagging. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“Do you want to head back?” His lips tug down into a frown and he squeezes your hand. “I can ask the driver to—“

“No, no!” You quickly shake your head. “I’m fine—I’ll be fine,” you correct when he raises an eyebrow. “I just—don’t let go of my hand?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he tells you softly, pressing another kiss to your hand. “Remember, if at any moment you feel uncomfortable, we can leave.”

“I know.” You smile and kiss him tenderly, pulling away with a soft smack. “And I will, promise.”

He studies you for a moment and then nods. He keeps you preoccupied until you’re at the front, playing with your fingers and tugging at them as he asks you questions about your family. It puts you at ease enough that when he’s helping you out of the car, you don’t recoil away from the flash of the mandatory picture of each guest.

He leads you into the sleek, large building, hooking your arm in his and resting his other arm over your hand. You follow closely, but he makes it easy by keeping his strides short and easy for you.

The main room is full of people milling about and seemingly flashing their checkbooks around with how they’re dressed to the nines in brand names.

Compared to what they’re wearing, the decorations are pretty simple—elegant, but simple: golds, oranges and yellows with silvers and blues—all warm colors to make people more at ease and enjoy their time with a hint of cold colors to contrast.

You let Steve maneuver you around, eyes on you the moment you step into their line of vision—you can almost see the questions on the tip of their tongue as their eyes follow you. But Steve ignores them and so do you.

“Captain Rogers!” A man calls out and Steve squeezes your hand before letting go and shaking the hand of the approaching man.

“Secretary Ross,” Steve greets him stiffly.

“ _Ah,_ I see you brought a date,” he says, as if noticing you for the first time and you smile at him, ready to introduce yourself but he continues, “And here I was hoping I could finally convince you to take my daughter out on a date.”

Your eyebrows furrow—what is that supposed to mean? It’s a subtle jab, that much is obvious, but for what reason?

Steve’s arm flexes under your hand and his jaw ticks as he introduces you since the douche didn’t even allow you to do so yourself. “As you can see, Secretary, I’m in very good company.” 

“We do, however, hope you find the perfect date for your daughter by the end of the night, Secretary Ross.” You smile placidly—at least, you hope you do. 

He frowns as if you’ve just insulted him and his next of kin, but you just continue to smile. “Yes, well, I hope you enjoy the night.” He excuses himself, probably to bother a different guest.

“What was that about?” you wait until he’s gone to ask, keeping your voice low.

“His daughter Betty is with Bruce—Hulk, I mean,” he explains softly. “He's never approved and is constantly trying to push her onto someone else.”

“That someone else being you?” What a dick of a father. Shouldn't he be glad his daughter is with someone she loves and loves her in return?

“Unfortunately.”

“And that man is our Secretary of State?” You ask with distaste. “How does he even handle foreign affairs?”

“Not very well,” Steve answers without missing a beat. “He's made many questionable decisions in the past and continues to do so.” He leads you further into the room. “He drafted the Sokovia Accords and almost divided the team, even wanted to lock up Wanda, deeming her too dangerous.” He sighs heavily. “It was an ordeal, but thanks to T’Challa we were somehow able to stand united.”

“You took a stand.” You can’t say you know much about the Accords, you were too busy watching your grade slip and debating on whether or not to focus on work and drop out of school. “Giving government's power over controlling super powered humans and trained assassins is always a spell for disaster.”

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “I’m sorry about the way he acted.”

“It’s fine.” You wave it away, not wanting to dwell.

“It’s not fine, but this probably won’t be the last exchange like this.”

“I figured.” You sigh. “I can handle it, Steve, I’ve worked customer service for years. If I can deal with a few self-entitled customers, I can deal with self-entitled rich people for a night.”

He chuckles, eyes brightening. “You won’t be handling it alone, I’m right here with you.”

“And I appreciate it.” You beam up at him and lean your head on his shoulder.

“Steve,” another voice calls out, but this one is much more raspier and feminine.

“Natasha,” Steve greets her with a friendly smile, “this is—“

“I know.” Natasha is one word: intimidating. Her eyes are studying you, taking you in— _sizing_ you up. Not that you blame her. 

You’re a complete stranger, someone outside of their world, and here you are, in her space while clinging to the arm of a man she most likely considers a brother.

“You handled Secretary Ross well.” Her analyzing breaks with a smile, and somehow, that’s even more nerve wrecking. “Most people would have been intimidated by a man with his influence.”

“You aren’t,” you find yourself muttering and she quirks an eyebrow up in amusement. 

“No, no I’m not.” She turns to Steve. “I like her.” She then turns to you with narrowed eyes full of amusement. “I like you.”

“Thank you?” That’s surprising, but you’ll take it. 

Steve chuckles, squeezing your hand resting on his bicep.

“Tony and Pepper are by the stage with the others, they’re all waiting to meet you,” she informs you with a crooked smile. “Steve hasn’t shut up about you for weeks now, so everyone's a little curious about you.”

You pause and you swear your head stops for a moment before kicking in to overdrive. Titling your head to get a glance at Steve, the tips of his ears are red and he’s sending a glare at Natasha for divulging information he hasn’t wanted you to know. It’s sweet and endearing.

“Should we go over then?” you ask with a smile.

* * *

By the end of the night, you’re already making plans for a girl’s night with the women of the team. They’re all so kind to you, especially Wanda, who just radiates warmth. She becomes your favorite Avenger, aside from Steve, of course. You just don’t understand how someone would want to lock her up, brand her as a danger to society.

She smiles shyly at you as she tells you about her current culinary adventures. It’s sweet, she’s sweet.

Clint and Sam are an absolute hoot, making you cramp up in laughter and Bucky is a little guarded, but he also makes you laugh with a couple insults he throws their way.

He raises his eyebrows at you and makes a motion to Clint and Sam, mouthing, “Idiots.”

Tony, however, surprises you. Your dad used to tell you stories about him, how he hardly ever spent time at either branches of Stark Industries and if he were ever present, he always seemed to be bored and in his own world. But seeing him here, with his arm around Pepper, a beautiful engagement ring on her finger, he doesn’t match the description he gave you. Tony watches over the group with an almost father-like gaze, completely relaxed by their presence even if he cracks a few jokes at their expense.

“Welcome to the circus,” he says to you, deadpanned, but his eyes dance with joy and a calm you don’t think he would ever be equated to.

When you had called them Steve’s family, you hadn’t realized how deep their bonds truly ran. There’s no denying they care for each other and view one another as a large family that just keeps growing bigger with every new addition. You admire and envy them for that, being able to stay together no matter what. 

Most of the guests are gone by midnight—thankfully. You were growing weary of having to smile at them and listen to their judgmental tones as they took you in. At some point, your group retires to the commons area in their residential dorm—or so Steve informs you when you ask where he’s taking you. By this point, after two glasses of champagne and going around greeting guests and helping him convince them to donate, you’re completely lost and tired.

“Want to rest?” Steve asks you, when your eyes flutter close multiple times, your breath evening out steadily. And you nod, both of you excusing yourselves for the night.

His room is dark, the city lights barely filtering in through the thin, white curtains. He doesn’t close the door behind him as he steps in after you, he doesn’t even say anything, just allows you to take in his room—large king bed low enough to touch the floor covered by a blue and grey duvet and different pillows of navy blue and white; light, wooden headboard matching the two night stands on either side and simple dresser to your right across from the bed and next to a door that most likely leads to a private bathroom; large, white rug, covering the floor and muting the clinking of your heels; blue armchair next to a standing lamp and a small bookcase drilled into the wall in the corner of the room—almost identical to the one back in Brooklyn, just a little more personal and lived in.

You’re much more awake now as you sit on the navy blue ottoman pressed against the end of the bed. “It’s simple,” you murmur. Much more lived in than his Brooklyn home, however.

“What were you expecting?” He asks, amusement laced into his words as your eyes drift over to him still standing by the door, watching you fondly.

“I don’t know? American flags, memorabilia, you know, the usual for an old man like you,” you tease and he chuckles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. You watch him as the room falls into silence and he just stands there, eyes never staying on you for too long. The grip on your clutch tightens and you feel the question you’ve been wanting to ask build up in your throat, blood pumping as you try to push it out. “Do you—are we—“

You feel like an idiot, an awkward teen about to have sex for the first time with their long time crush.

“We don’t have to,” he says, gentle and firm. It’s reassurance, he’s trying to reassure you like he did when he first came to you with this whole proposition—sex is optional. “I, _ah_ , I had a room prepared for you just in case.”

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper, gaze dropping to your black heels.

“I wanted to,” he tells you, your eyes lifting to meet his as he walks over to you. “I want you to feel comfortable with… _this_ —with _me._ I know none of this is easy—“

You’re aware that if it weren’t for the prospects of being able to give Esme a better chance at life, of telling your aunt off, of being able to pay for your mom’s medical bills, you wouldn’t have accepted any of this. 

But you did sign up for this, you’re being paid for this.

Now, however, it’s become much more than that. If it hadn't been for Steve—sweet and willing Steve—trying to make this worthwhile for you, never pressuring you to do things that might make you uncomfortable, protecting you and defending you in lieu of jealous gossip and snarky comments, you would have crumbled under the pressure already.

 _Would sleeping with Captain America be the worst thing to happen to you?_ No. No, it wouldn’t. Not when it’s Steve Rogers behind the cowl.

He stands in front of you now, gaze soft and full of assurance that has your breath stalling in your throat. “—that I’m asking a lot out of you, but you’ve been nothing but patient, and I—I want you to know that your safety, your feelings, are important—“

“I want to sleep with you,” you breathe out as you stand, words coming out jumbled and pressed together.

His eyebrows knit together, weaving in confusion and he pauses, trying to process and make sense of what you’ve just babbled. It takes a minute, but soon his expression clears and he just stares down at you, breath fanning over your lips and eyes searching for something in yours. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice low and heavy, unsure and wanton. 

Your eyes lower to his pink lips and back up, his blue eyes hazy and dark now, the light streaming into the room lighting them in a way that has heat pooling in your stomach and rising to your chest and cheeks. “Yes.”

He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb caressing your cheeks gingerly. “Tell me what you want, darlin’.”

“You. I want you, Steve. I want all of you.”

And that’s all it takes for his lips to descend on yours hungrily, arms falling to wrap around your waist and tug you impossibly close to his chest, hips snug against his. His large hand smooths up and down your bare back, no longer teasing you like earlier. His fingertips warm as they trail over your exposed back and you take hold of the lapels of his jacket.

He drinks your blissful sigh, responding with a groan of his own as the hand that held your hips to his slips down to the curve of your ass, kneading and caressing as his hip juts forward.

You gasp at the feel of his growing bulge grinding against you and you pull away from his kiss to throw your head back in a quiet moan. His lips latch onto your chin, trailing down to your neck and nibbling—his hips, his hands, they’re all too much and yet too little. You want more. You want to feel more of him—see more of him. 

Your hands slip under his jacket and he understands, briefly pulling away to shrug the article of clothing off swiftly, before pressing himself against you again. You make quick work of his belt, clumsy fingers untucking his shirt and undoing buttons. Teeth clash and tongues dance as he slips the straps of your dress down your shoulders.

Noise coming from outside registers in your mind between the moaning and groaning, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the open door and your disheveled appearance. “Door,” you rasp out, lips brushing against his.

“Why not keep it open?” he teases and chuckles when your eyes widen, your already heated skin getting hotter. 

He’s a fucking menace.

His lips trail to your earlobe and you suppress a squeal as he presses kisses and nibbles on it. “Imagine someone passing by and just hearing those cute little moans you make when I touch you just right.” He bunches the skirt of your dress over your ass, hand slipping into your panties and gripping your flesh tightly. “Their curiosity getting the better of them right at the moment you come undone by my fingers.”

“Steve,” you mewl. Who knew Captain America was so dirty?

His thumb smooths over your swollen lip as his fingers gripping your ass dip lower. You let out a whimper and grip his open shirt tightly in your fists as they tease at your entrance. 

“But then again, you make the sexiest expressions and I don’t want anyone other than me to see them,” he murmurs. A long, thick finger slips in and you just about keel over, his arm quickly wraps around your waist to hold you in place as he chuckles darkly. He nudges your cheek with his nose to make you look up at him, and shy eyes meet his heated ones. Sucking in a breath, he kisses you softly, and whispers, “Definitely not letting anyone see.”

* * *

You groan, rolling over and searching for the warmth that had been encasing you into the late hours of the night. But it’s gone, and that has you sitting up urgently, your breath coming out ragged as you try to blink through your sleepy haze. 

Steve is nowhere to be found, room abnormally quiet without his light snores. You call for him softly. When you get no answer, you call for him again, louder this time.

“If you’re looking for Captain Rogers, he is in the commons area.”

“Fuck!” You startle almost rolling off the bed, hands flying to your racing heart to steady yourself. “You scared me Friday.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, it was not my intention.”

“No, _uh_ , you’re good,” you tell the AI, a little awkwardly and unsure of how to speak to it—her? “Thank you for letting me know—about Steve, I mean.”

“Of course.”

Your bare feet touch the ground and pad against the cold flooring of the Compound, the sweet ache between your legs making you move slowly. You find a random hoodie in his closet and throw it on along with a pair of his boxers. You look ridiculous, but you’re not about to wear your dress from last night.

You slip out of his room, following the path that Steve led you through last night. You’re pretty sure this was the way to the commons area from last—you pause, eyes landing on Steve’s back and the other members of the Avengers surrounding a blue light.

“And you’re sure these schematics aren’t familiar to you?”

“Hate to break it to you, Capsicle. But I’m not the only one who's dealt with weapons dealing,” Tony moves away from the table, grumbling.

Oh, shit. Are they having a meeting? Friday did _not_ tell you the Avengers were having a secret meeting that you should probably not be eavesdropping on, maybe it’s best to—wait. Those blueprints—they can’t be—

Steve quickly turns around at the small gasp that escapes your lips and approaches you, ready to turn you around. “Sweetheart? What are you doing—“

You ignore Steve, sidestepping him to stand right in front of the hologram of the hovering weapon, spinning in place, blue light illuminating your face. Your eyes rove over the equations and the break down of each part and—no, it can’t be! “Where did you get these?”

“ _Uh_ , mission?” Clint answers, looking around the room.

“You’ve seen ‘em before?” Bucky asks, calculating blue eyes on you, watching every minuscule gesture you make and any emotion that might flash over your face.

You swallow harshly, eyes never leaving the familiar blueprints—the ones your dad spent hours pouring over. But they’re different, the kinetic energy intake and output, the trigger—a bomb? “They were my father’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to join our discord server where we geek out and request stories from mallory or have fun during our sleepover prompt days where we all share a prompt (or give out prompts) and write: this is the [invite link](https://discord.gg/mm9Spmq2pt)


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